


the universe expanded

by foreverthyme



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Internet, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 105,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverthyme/pseuds/foreverthyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no life without Bucky, or Steve and Bucky from the beginning onward and every place in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. time will contract; you'll come back

**Author's Note:**

> I will be updating daily. There are at least nineteen chapters. Rating will change and tags will be added as the story progresses. Thank you!

Steve thinks of scuffed floors and high-heeled shoes. The lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. It smells like cigarette smoke and something more – husky, like maple, or possibly hardwood finish. It’s an old smell. The floor creaks beneath them. Music croons in the background. His hands are wrapped around Peggy’s waist. She smells like vanilla and the cold fog that settles over forests.

He has no idea what he’s doing, so he copies what he used to see Bucky do with dames back at home. Hand here, feet there, move like this. He’s sort of awkward, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s good like that. She really likes him. Steve thinks she might have liked him before the serum. Bucky would like that. Bucky would want them to have a future together. She can take care of Steve, and that’s important, because Steve needs somebody to take care of him. He’s got that serum now, but he’s still Steve. He might win more of the fights that he picks, but he’s still too damn heroic for his own good.

That’s what Bucky would say, if Bucky were there.

Peggy laughs. It’s 2013. There is a steady stream of rain hitting the window of her bedroom. She is old, and beautiful, and they have never danced together. A brief silence falls over them. It is broken by a gasp. “Steve,” she says again. “You’re alive!”

Later, he presses his forehead to the cold tile of his shower. The water is the hottest that it can get, and it is scalding his back. It’s 2013. He’s alive. “Never thought I’d make it to 95, did you, Buck?”

There is no reply. Bucky is dead. Bucky’s been dead for almost two years. Bucky’s been dead for seven decades. The Internet tells Steve that there’s a grave for Bucky, and the other Commandos, at Arlington. It’s an empty grave. They never found a body.

Steve’s apartment is quiet, dark. He was never supposed to survive taking down the Red Skull, not really. He grabs a book and sits down. Peggy was always a pipe dream. He places his feet on the ottoman. He could never really imagine a life without Bucky.

\--

This is his life without Bucky:

He does missions for SHIELD. He watches movies that people think are important. He googles a lot of things. He’s okay at technology, but he thinks Bucky would probably be better at it. He was always more tech-minded. Steve was the artist. Steve still draws. He has sketchbooks filled with stuff. Like before, it’s mostly stuff that he sees: the city, people, things that he does. He sketches Natasha a lot. Almost as much as he used to sketch Bucky. He still sketches Bucky, too.

Steve wakes up on the couch. Early morning sunlight is filtering in through the windows. It’s still grey outside, like the sun hasn’t fully woken up. Everything is quiet. Steve gets up, makes coffee, and tells Bucky about New York. He tells Bucky about New York a lot, but it’s a different Bucky every time. Sometimes Bucky is eleven, with scabbed knees, and he is as excited as about real life superheroes as the kids who wear Captain America t-shirts are. Sometimes Bucky is twenty-three, with his hair slicked back, and he’s offering snarky comments and worried condemnations.

Bucky is rarely a soldier when Steve is talking to him. Steve likes to remember Bucky as being happy.

Steve goes for a long run. He hasn’t had a mission from SHIELD in two weeks and he’s getting restless. He thinks that the 21st century is okay, but he doesn’t like dwelling on it much. It gives him homesickness.

He’s been back to the apartment he shared with Bucky before the war. Or, he’s been back to the lot where the apartment used to be. It burnt down in the 1960s. Now there’s a drug store there. Steve went in and bought a cheap pad of paper, a pen. He sat down outside and drew the street like he remembered it. After he was done, he went back into the drug store and bought a candy bar. He went back to his apartment and realized that the old lot wasn’t home. Home was a boy with a cocky smile and dark hair, who dripped with good-humor and defiance. Home was trouble, and security, and those hands that held Steve as he cried after his mother died, and those hands that saved him time and time again from guys twice his size, and those hands he failed to grasp when it mattered the most.

Home died in 1944.

Steve returns to his apartment two hours later. He takes a shower. The water is hot. It fogs all the mirrors. Steve can see Bucky reaching out for him. He can see Bucky stretching into the past forever – Bucky with a gun, or in a uniform with a girl on his arm. Bucky at Coney Island, Bucky posing for sketches, Bucky laughing, and crying, and stretched out beside Steve.

Steve looks to his future and sees nothing.


	2. don't you dare fall in love

Winifred Barnes was born on the windswept plains of the west, and that’s where she should have stayed. Steve can see Bucky in her – the hard jaw, the dark hair, and the pouting lips. It makes her beautiful, but she is faded. Her wrists are weak, and her pallor is sickly. When she has the energy, she paces back and forth across the floor of her cramped apartment like an animal in a cage. Bucky follows her like a shadow.

“She needs someone to take care of her,” he explains. “My dad used to do it, but now that he’s dead I’m the man of the house.” Bucky is eight, Steve is seven. Steve has never met Bucky’s father. He died before the remaining Barnes’ moved in down the street. Steve would not have wanted to meet Bucky’s father, but he does not know that now. Steve doesn’t have a father, but he imagines that they are all like the man his mother tells him his father was. He wants to be like his father someday: brave, strong, kind, courageous.

Steve is the man of his house, too. Sarah Rogers is a hard, thin woman ground out of stone and ash. She works her fingers to the bone caring for the sick, and then returns asleep on her feet to a two room apartment. It is sparsely decorated and cold. In the winters, Steve spends months wrapped in layer upon layer of moth-eaten wool clothing (one layer always Bucky’s jacket – stubborn bastard just wouldn’t take no for an answer). But it is warmer at Bucky’s place. Winifred Barnes begins to think of Steve as her son, too.

It is here that they pull out the couch cushions for the first time. Steve remembers it fondly. It was late November and unseasonably cold. The frost covered the window panes, and the chill settled so far into Steve’s bones that it almost hurt to move.

Bucky doted. He draped blanket upon blanket around his friend, and then wrapped his arms around him for good measure. They were on the ground, entwined innocently in all of the ways that they did not know not to be yet. “You don’t have to take care of me, you know,” Steve tells him. In truth, Steve doesn’t care, but it sounds like something that a boy his age should say.

“Nah, I ain’t gonna let you be cold in my own house, am I? It’s just good hospitality,” Bucky replies. Steve thinks he probably learned the word from his mother. It makes him smile, how he can know so much about a person. And he knows a lot about Bucky, like the way that he grins all big and stupid, and the way that he laughs with his whole body. He knows that Bucky loves pirates, and thinks automobiles are the neatest thing on the planet. He knows that Bucky has great aim, and can throw a baseball harder and more accurate than the pros, probably. He knows that Bucky is always looking down alleyways, just in case Steve is getting jumped somewhere. He knows that Bucky loves to run, but walks when he’s with Steve because he doesn’t want to leave his friend behind.

He knows that Bucky loves him like a brother.

They even fight like brothers, when they fight (which is rare and only happens in the years between twelve and fourteen). It is never over anything important. In the future, Steve spends a four hour run trying to think about why they fought. He doesn’t remember until the following shower, and he laughs so hard he can only hope that the sound doesn’t carry through the walls.

It doesn’t matter, because in the end they always came back to each other.

When Steve is fifteen, and drunk for the first time, he realizes that Bucky knows him better than anybody else, even his mom. The sky is painted like a watercolor, dull yellows and pinks. Bucky’s lips are red, and he is leaning against a wooden box. Their feet are dangling over the water. “You’re my best friend,” Steve says.

Bucky laughs. “Uh, yeah,” he says, and then he laughs some more. Steve thinks he might be acting more drunk than he actually is, but he’s not going to hold it against him.

“’M not acting,” Bucky says. Steve stops, eyes glassy and lips parted. They both burst out laughing; it rings across the abandoned dock.

“Shit,” Steve mumbles.

“Shit is right,” Bucky says, taking a drink. He grimaces. “’S not my fault you’re such a light-weight.”

Steve smoothes back his hair, feigning confidence. Bucky is right. His friend has gotten taller, larger, more defined. His jaw has hardened and he’s beginning to look more like a man than a kid. Steve has mostly stayed the same. He doesn’t have a comeback for this one, so he shoots Bucky the cockiest smile he can muster and winks.

Bucky stares for a moment longer than he should, before breaking out into laughter again. He lays his back against the wooden planks. Steve follows in suite.

“So,” Bucky says. “You gonna ask Babs to dance tomorrow night?”

Steve chews on his lower lip. “Nah,” he says.

“What!” Bucky hits the ground with his hand as if to drive his point home. He turns to face Steve. “Why the hell not?”

“She’s not my type,” Steve tells him. Wait. That came out wrong.

“What!” Bucky says again. “She’s a dish, what are you saying ‘she’s not your type’?”

“I mean,” Steve enunciates. “I’m not her type.”

There is a beat of silence. “Oh,” Bucky says. “Why the hell not?”

Steve fixes a cold glare on his friend. “You know why the hell not.”

Bucky moves very suddenly onto his stomach. “You listen here, Steve, any floozy who can’t see that you’re a real stand-up guy ain’t worth your time anyhow.”

“Alright, alright,” Steve says. “Thanks Buck.” A warm summer wind blows over the two of them. Despite the heat, it causes Steve’s hair to stand up on end. The city rumbles around them. Misery is the highlight of the year, but Steve and Bucky can only see each other.

That night, Winifred meets Steve at the door. She is like a grey fog, the way she moves. When Steve sketches her, he makes sure to leave some of her lines blurred. At her request, she is buried with one of his drawings. Bucky is seventeen. His face is like stone for days. He stands tall, and straight, and Steve thinks that this must be what Bucky’s father was like.

Arrangements are made, and put into place in a way that’s so practical it seems disrespectful. Bucky drops out of school to work, and Steve finds himself the last male in his graduating class. In the future, this fact will make up the cornerstone of the introductory chapters of any biography worth its academic salt. “Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says. “Never been any good at school anyhow,” he explains while he sells his mother’s apartment and all of the possessions in it. Steve watches as everything that Winifred Barnes was is taken away.

Bucky uses the money to rent a new, smaller apartment. It is grey, and cramped, and sometime in the future it will burn to the ground and they will build a drugstore on top of its ashen corpse. It makes Steve feel lonely.

On a humid spring day when he’s sixteen, he finds Bucky face down on the swollen floor. The apartment is bare, but there is a bed. Bucky is choosing this for himself. Bucky is breathing, head buried in his hands. He does not acknowledge when Steve enters and does not move when Steve sits down beside him. They do not speak. They do not touch. Bucky’s breath hitches and Steve realizes that this is the first time he’s ever seen his friend cry. He reaches out a tentative hand and, after a few moments of deliberation, he places it on Bucky’s back. Bucky is quick to latch on. He wraps his arms around Steve in a way that they have not been since they were boys.

Bucky cries for hours. It begins to rain outside. When the night falls, they silently walk to Steve’s place. Sarah Rogers meets them at the door, more withered than her countenance would suggest. She offers warm food, and a place to stay for the night, but Bucky declines in all of the right ways. (In truth, it breaks her heart – she has begun to see Bucky just as much her son as Steve.)

They do not talk about it again.

Bucky has girls, and Steve has Bucky and his mother, and soon it is only Bucky. Tuberculosis is endemic in the 1930s. Sarah Rogers ends up in the same hospital that she spent her life in. Before she dies, she speaks to Bucky. Steve does not know what is said, but he has some idea.

He buys liquor with money he doesn’t have and drinks until he is sick. He throws rocks into the ocean, but can’t make them skip. He tries, but he can’t fight. He’s nineteen, and he’s shorter than half the dames he knows. He’s concave. He can trace his skeleton with his fingers, and he can’t afford art school, and his mother is dying. He has nothing. He breaks the bottle on the pavement and it shatters, and he has nothing.

Bucky brings him home. He stays over the night that Sarah Rogers dies. Three days later he asks Steve to move in with him, rent free. It is 1938. Steve has Bucky.

They pull out the couch cushions, and Bucky returns an unspoken favor by holding Steve for hours as he cries. It storms that night, and Steve wishes that the city would collapse into the sea.

In the morning, there is sunlight streaming in through the windows. Although the apartment has not changed much since it was purchased, Steve finds that the atmosphere is fundamentally different. He sketches Bucky, still asleep on the ground. When Bucky wakes, Steve shows him. It’s not the first time he’s shared his art, and it’s certainly not the first time that he’s sketched Bucky, but, like the apartment, there is something strange that Steve cannot quiet place.

In the fading afternoon light, Steve realizes that he would be content to spend the rest of his life with Bucky and Bucky alone.

But Bucky is not like Steve. Bucky has girls. Steve likes girls, likes girls a lot, but they don’t seem to like him very much and he’s just about given up trying. Bucky keeps dragging him on these stupid double dates that Steve hates, but he does it to humor Bucky. Besides, by the end of the night, most nights, it always ends up just being the two of them back at the apartment, side by side.

A few months before the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor, there is a girl named Ruth Mathers. She is cute enough, about Steve’s height, with short dark curls and lipstick as red as an apple. She is nice, batting her eyes at all the right moments and laughing when appropriate. She is nothing special, but Bucky likes her. He thinks she’s funny, and he repeats the jokes that she tells to Steve late at night, but the context is always lost just enough so that they lose what made them special. Bucky laughs harder than Steve’s seen him laugh in years. He hates himself, but it breaks his heart.

Ruth hangs around the apartment. She brings baked goods. She wears the same three dresses every time. Steve thinks that they’re the only ones that she owns. Steve doesn’t think that she likes him, but Bucky’s convinced that they get along just fine. She is not cruel, but the disinterest is plain on her face. She twirls her hair around her finger and paces the apartment back and forth like a caged animal.

“I hate the city,” she confesses. Steve thinks of Winifred Barnes. He draws Ruth, and presses his lines darker than usual. It looks wrong, so he smudges them and she comes to life. Bucky loves it and tells him to show it to her. He does, despite himself. She tells him thank you, but there is something misgiving in her words that makes Steve want sink into the earth. In April of 2013, he receives the drawing in a package that comes to him from a girl who tells him that she’s Ruth Mathers’ great-granddaughter. She tells him that it’s been passed down as something of a family heirloom.

On a dull afternoon, Steve Rogers finds out what became of the girl who made Bucky laugh. Ruth Mathers was married twice, once to an American pilot who died in the pacific ’44, and then again to a Canadian businessman. She had one son, who died in ’68 in Vietnam. She had one grand-daughter, who died in ’04 in Iraq. She was survived only by her great-granddaughter after her death in 1997. It makes Steve lonely. In 2013, he would have taken even the company of Ruth Mathers.

Steve wonders if her children knew. Thinking of Ruth, he figures that they must have. She would not have been one to keep the fact that she once dated a Howling Commando a secret. She might have even told them that it was Steve she was after. Steve is glad that Ruth never knew about Bucky’s intentions; it would have made her story all the more dramatic.

“I think I’m gonna marry that girl,” Bucky tells him a few weeks before the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. The words come as a shock to Steve, and he slips. A mask that he didn’t know that he had shatters and his heart drops into his stomach.

Here is the worst part: Bucky sees it. And his reaction haunts Steve for years, haunts him until he gets an explanation from a Bucky with one metal arm and a near permanent thousand yard-stare. Bucky looks at Steve silently once, then twice, with his lips parted just so slightly. Steve recognizes a deep-seated understanding that makes his heart coil. Steve thinks he fucked up, fucked up bad.

Steve swallows. “Hey, Buck, if you think she’s the one,” he tries to recover. He is flush, he knows he is. Bucky is silent. He is wound in a way that is so uncharacteristic it frightens Steve.

Finally, he breaks. “Yeah,” he says. His voice is small. He grabs his coat. “Yeah,” he says again. His eyes are searching on the ground for something. “I’m gonna, gonna go meet with some of the guys, I think. Yeah.” He leaves haphazardly.

Steve spends four agonizing hours attempting to read, or work on a cartoon, or do anything. He can’t concentrate. It is like his hands are limp.

Bucky stumbles in at midnight, smelling of alcohol. Steve has of course seen him drunk before, gotten him drunk before, but Bucky is so drunk that Steve begins to question if he’s ever actually seen him intoxicated for real. He barely gets his coat off, drops it on the floor, and lays down on the bed. He can’t kick his shoes off, so Steve does that for him. Steve hangs up his coat. Steve sleeps on the floor that night. When he wakes up he is in the bed, and Bucky is sitting in the corner drinking black coffee while nursing a wicked hangover.

Beyond light teasing, they do not discuss it. Ruth stops coming around. On December 6th, 1941, Steve asks Bucky where she’s been. Bucky waves his hand. “Didn’t work out,” he says. “’Sides, she hated it here. Wants to move to the Middle West, or California, or something.”

The Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. She is not mentioned again. America goes to war.

Steve’s been playing soldier for years. Bucky always liked playing pirates or baseball more.

They have two more years together, and only another year and a half of relative peace.

Steve will only admit it much, much later, but they spend that year and a half dancing around each other. They drink, and they laugh, and they swear and joke and soak up each other’s company like sponges. They get into arguments about enlisting. They spend nights on the roof in the summer, and curled around each other in the winter – they can only afford one bed, after all. Bucky still sees girls, but they are few and far between. Steve gets his first kiss, but she leaves on a train to Florida the next day and Bucky says “Tough luck” but he has never been more thankful in his entire life.

Here is a memory that Steve keeps finding himself dwelling on:

It is three weeks before Bucky is drafted. Bucky tells Steve that he enlisted, but that’s the biggest lie that he’s ever told in his life and Steve feels stupid for only figuring it out later, in a fox-hole somewhere in Europe. They are in the kitchen which is also the living room and the dining room. The radio is crooning softly from the center of the table. The windows are open. The night is dark but alive.

Steve is drawing. He’s sketching Bucky’s sister, or what he thinks Bucky’s sister might look like. Bucky has one. Her name is Rebecca, and Steve has never met her. He doesn’t think that Bucky’s seen her since he was seven. Bucky’s aunt used to pay for her, and Bucky’s two younger brothers, to go to an expensive boarding school. Steve doesn’t know where she is now. Bucky doesn’t either.

Rebecca is beginning to look more like Winifred than Steve had originally planned. He is concentrating, when he sees something out of the corner of his eye. It’s Bucky, who is dancing like a total asshole. Bucky hunched over the stove, overcooking beans and shaking hips absentmindedly to the radio. Steve laughs louder than he means to. Bucky turns with one cocked eyebrow.

“Got something to say?” he asks. Steve drops his pencil and leans back.

“Nothing at all,” he says.

Bucky nods solemnly. “Well,” he murmurs, “in that case.” He throws a towel over his shoulder and continues dancing, this time purposefully exaggerated. He looks ridiculous. Steve laughs harder.

“That’s what I thought,” Bucky says. He leaves the beans and dancing his way over to Steve, who is _losing_ it. “What’s wrong, punk, don’t like my dancin’?”

Steve’s face is red and his eyes are watering from the laughter. “No, Buck, it’s just you’ve really got some –“

Bucky speaks louder. “Everybody’s a critic, Rogers; I’d like to see you try some moves!”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I don’t think that’s –“ but he’s cut off by Bucky, who is grabbing his hand and turning the radio up. Steve is on his feet, putting his hands up in front of him like they’ll save him but Bucky is insistent.

“C’mon Rogers, show me what you got!” he’s saying, and he’s backing Steve up into a corner. Steve is denying it, denying until finally he gives in and starts moving just as ridiculously as his friend until they are both dancing like total idiots and oh god, if anybody saw them they’d think they were crazy.

As they dance, they end up orbiting closer and closer to each other. “Come in for the twirl, Steve,” he says and he holds out his hand. Steve is laughing so hard he doesn’t care, and he takes it, and Bucky is twirling him like some girl at the dance hall and they’re both laughing so hard it doesn’t matter. They find themselves in each other’s arms, until they’re not dancing next to each other so much as they are dancing with each other.

Steve thinks that he can smell the beans burning, and he tells himself that he’ll check on them after this song because if there’s one thing that you learn growing up during the depression it’s that you never waste food. But the song changes and Steve finds that he’s too preoccupied with Bucky’s hands on his waist (when did that happen?). The next song is slower, and they ease into it.

The lights are bright, and the room is a pale grey. It smells like burnt food, and soup, and something like mold, but it’s home. The floor creaks beneath them. Music croons in the background. Bucky’s hands are wrapped around him, and he’s close. He smells like cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave, and _Bucky._

They sway together. And it’s right; it feels more right than anything Steve has ever done in his entire life.

His heart is beating faster, so fast that Steve is worried that he might keel over. Bucky looks so beautiful, so beautiful and he wants to –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, how the ghost of you clings.


	3. you can never dream it down

\- remember this, remember that moment, remember, remember, remember, вспоминать, вспоминать, вспоминать, какова моя миссия?

\--

Bucky wakes up fighting.

His whole body is screaming in pain, and his eyes are drooping, and the sweat is slick and cold on his forehead, but he’s fighting.

Where is he? He fell, he remembers that. He fell for a long time. Too long, he should probably be dead, but it’s not really a shock to him. He’s wondered for some time now if they gave him something – something like Steve, maybe, although obviously not as pronounced. This is just a confirmation.

He had been on a mission with Steve. He can’t remember specifics, but he knows he fell. Shit, he panics. He hopes Steve’s okay. Steve’s gotta be okay. Just breathe, Barnes, Steve’s fine. You have to worry about yourself right now.

Where is he? He tries to move and gets pain. There are people around him speaking a language that he doesn’t understand. He runs it through his head. It’s sounds German, or Russian, or something - and he’s trying to think, but his head is so fucking fuzzy.

He tries to move again, realizes that he’s strapped down somewhere. Panic. Not again, not fucking again. He wants to cry. He is crying. He leans to his side as far as he can and vomits, a cold hand grabs his head and pushes him back against whatever he’s strapped against. He shakes his head away from their grasp. He snarls. He kicks his legs, he tries to move his arms, but they’ve got him.

They’re speaking in hushed tones and whispers. He has to move. He has to get out of here. Steve’s gotta know where he is, he’s gotta be looking for him. He has to meet Steve; he has to meet the rest of the guys. He’s gotta get out of here.

“You fucking Jerry pieces of shit, you fucking let me go, or I’ll fucking –“ he is screaming and he is manic and his throat fucking hurts. His lips are cracked, his voice is cracking.

He feels the sharp pinch if a needle in his right arm. “Don’t you fucking-“ he starts to say, because he can remember last time. Somebody grabs his jaw and pries his mouth open with the harsh skill of a physician. They put something in his mouth. He shudders and quakes, tries to spit it out, but Christ, he’s so fucking exhausted.

They shout something. There are two sets of hands, one holding his mouth shout around the piece and the other holding his head in place.

Somebody presses a button.

Electricity tears Bucky apart.

\--

He wakes up and dully registers that his left arm is gone from the shoulder. He whimpers. They shock him again.

\--

He thinks, “Steve is going to come and get me. And we’re gonna go home to Brooklyn, and our shitty little apartment. This war is gonna be over, and I don’t care what anyone thinks, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with Steve because I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve is going to come and get me. And we’re gonna home to our shitty little apartment. This war is gonna be over, and I don’t care what anyone thinks, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with Steve because I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve is going to come and get me. And we’re gonna go home. I don’t care what anyone thinks, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with Steve because I love him.”

\--

They’ve been starving him because he hasn’t been cooperating. He sits in the corner of his cell. They’ve been preventing him from sleeping because he hasn’t been cooperating. He has his right arm curled around his body. It’s freezing cold, but his body is so warm. He thinks that the gaping hole in his torso where his left arm used to be is infected. They keep sending new people, who all look the same, in, and they keep injecting him with vials of poisons and elixirs and medicines and experimental solutions.

“I’m gonna die here,” he says to nobody at all. His voice is harsh with disuse.

\--

“No,” he says the night that his fever breaks. “You’re going to keep me alive.”

They drag him out of his cell and strap him into the chair. They have to force his mouth open, but he doesn’t fight it. He wakes up, and can’t remember his name.

\--

He thinks, “Steve is going to come and get me. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with Steve because I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve is going to come and get me. I love him.”

He thinks, “There’s a man who is going to come and get me. I love him.”

\--

His wounds are healing. He cooperates. They feed him. They shock him. He knows what they want from him. He gives it to them.

He can’t place names. His head lolls to the side. They teach him how to stay awake. He thinks he remembers someone who loves him. He thinks that he remembers dancing. He thinks that he can remember it in detail: the bright lights, the creaking floor, the little body in his hands. He replays it over and over again in his head.

Remember, remember, remember.

He forgets.

\--

“какова моя миссия,” he says. He does not know what it means.

“какова моя миссия,” he says. He does not know what it means.

“какова моя миссия,” he says. He does not know what it means.

\--

They give him an arm. They call him a weapon. They place information in his head. They make him work like a computer (“-world of the future! C’mon, Steve –“) but there are glitches.

“открой рот.”

He opens his mouth.

\--

He thinks that maybe somebody might have loved him once.

“вспоминать.”

He forgets.

\--

“открой рот.”

He opens his mouth.

\--

“какова моя миссия,” he says.

He knows what it means.


	4. they flutter behind you, your possible pasts

The house is quiet, dark, and empty. It is filled with the clutter of a life well-lived, and the windows are open to receive some of the warm summer breeze. The smell of the lakeshore is carried in upon it, and the asset can hear the sound of children laughing by the sand. Outside, someone is cooking meat on a grill top.

The target has a big family. The asset knows this because they programmed it into him. He waits inside the house for the target.

There are low rumbles in the distance. The asset is not startled because they programmed that into him as well – for this mission, it is a non-issue. It is the American Independence Day. In celebration of overthrowing a colonial ruler with whom they had close cultural ties, citizens light fireworks. The asset has no opinion on the matter.

The asset moves to an open window on the second floor. He can see the target’s large family spread out beneath the house on blankets, or on the tops of cars. He watches in shadow. If anyone sees him he will have to kill all of them. It would be easy from this vantage point.

There is another rumble, and a brief splattering of ‘ooo’s and ‘ahh’s. The way that the light catches on the lake holds the asset’s attention. He looks up. There are streaks of multi-coloured fire in the sky. They fall beautifully. He blinks, and he is somewhere else for a moment – a dock, near a large city. “Happy birthday, Steve,” he feels himself say. His voice is unfamiliar to him, and the way that he forms his words are foreign.

The asset blinks again, and he is back in the dark house. There are more fireworks, this time in quick succession. The door behind him opens. He turns on his heel to see the target, fat belly spilling over his belt and an alcoholic beverage in his hand. The asset shoots. The target falls.

Outside, the family claps and honks car-horns. The show is over.

The asset returns to base and debriefs. His handlers show concern. The asset is confused when they strap him tightly into the chair. He hates this – he _hates_ this.

“But I have completed the mission successfully,” he says. They give him a look of pity. He does not understand it.

“Open your mouth,” they tell him. He opens his mouth.

He is unmade and remade. He marches into cryo. He thinks about nothing as his heartbeat slows.

\--

Steve thinks about Peggy.

The plane is sinking fast, and the water has almost completely overtaken the cockpit. There is no space left for him to breathe, and so he waits.

Last dance. Steve thinks of scuffed floors and high-heeled shoes. Steve thinks of death. The lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. The cockpit is completely submerged. It smells like cigarette smoke and something more – husky, like maple, or possibly hardwood finish. Steve has been attempting to hold his breath, but he knows that it’s useless, that he is going to drown. Music croons in the background. It feels like he is going to sleep. His hands are wrapped around Peggy’s - Bucky’s – Peggy’s – wait, no.

Bucky’s hands are wrapped around his waist. The floor creaks beneath them. Steve is numb. Bucky smells like cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave. Everything is hazy.

“Just like going to sleep, huh, pal?” Bucky whispers into his ear. Steve is so cold. Steve is so cold that he is hot – so hot. “Hey, it’s just like a fever. It’ll break,” Bucky tells him. Steve nods. The plane sinks.

Steve goes to sleep.

\--

The asset wakes up.

He has knowledge: it is 1968; he will be in Los Angeles. His target is an American politician. This mission requires him to go undercover. He has never gone undercover before.

They dress him in popular fashion that is not too popular. They shave his face. He keeps feeling his skin with his right hand. He does not know why.

Some of his handlers are nervous, but the asset is not because the asset does not feel. The asset simply does. And so they let him out on the streets. He knows where he is, and what he is supposed to do. It is estimated to be a quick mission. It is not infiltration. It is a quick assassination.

The target is laughably unprotected. The asset waits. He is hidden in the crowd.

Behind him, two civilians are speaking.

“- about Bavasi leaving the Dodgers?”

“Yeah, and Fresco Thompson’s taking over –“

“Ricky doesn’t think Fresco’s gonna last the year.”

The asset does not know why he turns around. “Dodgers?” he asks.

The first civilian, a thin and willowy boy no older than twenty-two with dark-rimmed glasses, says “Yeah, the LA Dodgers _?”_

“ _LA_ Dodgers?” the asset repeats.

The other civilian, dark skinned and well-built with an l-shaped scar on his chin, says “Yeah, like baseball?”

The asset shakes his head. This is wrong. “No, no. LA?”

The second civilian grimaces, nods. “Yeah, like Los Angeles? Like where you are right now?”

The asset furrows his brow. “ _Los Angeles?_ ” He knows what Los Angeles (city, California, USA, population: 2.816 million) is, because they told him, but he is still at a loss.

Civ-1 laughs. “Man, this guy is blitzed.”

The asset shakes his head again. “No, no. Brooklyn Dodgers,” he finally manages to spit out. The name feels funny on his tongue. He identifies it as a part of a city in the United States of America (population: 7.89 million). Beyond that, it has no meaning.

Civ-1 laughs again. “Yeah, used to be the Brooklyn Dodgers.”

The asset balks. This is very wrong. “When?” he asks.

Civ-2 scratches his chin. “Uh, sold to LA like ten years ago?”

The asset is shocked by what comes out of his mouth. “What the hell?” he shouts. The civilians laugh.

Civ-1 asks “Dude, where have you been?”

Civ-2 says “Can you hook me up with whatever dope you’re smoking because I want to get down with that.”

The asset is at a loss. Something is going on. He has been compromised. He needs to complete this mission and get back to base. He needs to get control of himself. Instead, he asks “Why?”

Civ-1 gestures to the asset and says “Dude, listen to him. He’s straight outta New York City, this has gotta be heart-breaking for him.”

Civ-2 answers the asset “Money, man, big fat cats with money make the world go ‘round.”

The asset growls. He gives the civilians a withering look. They are not his target, but he wants to kill them, and he does not know why. “I have been compromised,” he says simply, and slips away quickly. He leaves them buckled over with laughter.

He completes the mission. It is messier than he would have liked. He knows what is waiting for him. He does not wait for their direction. He debriefs, and goes right to the chair. He opens his mouth before they ask him to.

\--

There are three boys and two girls. They’re just kids, probably no older than eleven. Their shoes are well-loved, their smiles are wide, and they are playing baseball.

Steve watches. He is at a park. He is absent-mindedly sketching. The kids began the game and are continuing on without any indication that they know who they are being watched by. One of the girl’s has a home-made Captain America backpack. Steve can see the paint on the haphazardly drawn shield peeling. It makes him smile, because it’s the kind of thing that he would have done when he was a kid.

One of the boys has a mean pitch, a good pitch. He’s small and wiry, with dark hair and dark skin. Steve sketches him, but it turns out wrong. Different than what he had planned. The pose is off – it’s more Bucky than this kid, and Steve decides that he might as well give into his inclinations.

Bucky was a cute kid. Steve cocks his head as he draws. He dresses Bucky in modern clothing, like the stuff those kids are wearing. It’s a concession. An acceptance of his reality.

Bucky wanted to be a baseball player. Steve used to tell him that he could do it. Steve still kind of thinks that maybe he could have done it. He had such aim, such force. He was so precise. Maybe if he had more opportunities. Maybe if he wasn’t so preoccupied with taking care of Steve. Maybe if he hadn’t gone to war.

Steve sets down his pencil and his sketchbook. He’s not tired, but he feels exhausted. He gathers his things and slings his bag of his shoulder. As he leaves, he hears someone scream “Bye Captain!”

It’s the girl with the backpack. She waves. He waves back.

On the ride home, he wonders if they made any Bucky Barnes trading cards.

\--

The asset is waiting. All things have been set in motion. The target should be taken care of.

The car crashes. The accident is horrible. The target has been taken care of. The mission has been accomplished. The asset views the twisted wreck from a nearby building top. He is to take care of any survivors, should they exist. They do not. Nobody comes crawling from that twisted metal hunk, once so pristine, so (“- way of the future, Steve –“)

The asset has completed the mission, but there is something beyond his programming telling him that he has failed. His handlers share split-second, worried glances.

\--

Tony smiles for the camera. His hand is on Steve’s lower back. When the photos are taken, he turns and says “Cap’n.”

Steve offers a smile and nods.

“Glad you could make it to the party. Well, not glad as much as I am shocked, but hey, it’s Christmas.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve says. He does not want to be there. He does not particularly want to be anywhere.

They pose for another picture. Tony sticks his tongue out. Steve smiles uncomfortably.

The girl with the camera blows a kiss to them both and then rejoins the crowd of people.

“Hey, I’d love to stay and chat, but hanging out with the ghost of Christmas past isn’t how I intended to spend my party, so enjoy the free booze, and have a happy new year,” Tony offers. He shakes Steve’s hand and then disappears into the mass of people. “White Christmas” hums merrily in the background. Steve shifts uncomfortably.

There is a figure to his right shoulder. She places a gentle hand on his back and glides to his side. She is short and dressed in a tight, silver gown. Her red hairs falls in her face, and then down the line of her neck and to the swell of her breasts. She does not look at him.

“Hey, Natasha,” he says.

“Steve,” she murmurs back. Her countenance is cold, and she has a drink clutched in her right hand. He does not think that she’s taken a sip of it.

“Your hair is different,” he tells her, at a loss for anything more substantial to say.

The side of her mouth twitches into the warmest half-smile she is willing to give. Another guest would think she was smirking. “Yes,” she says. “It is.”

_Spy stuff_ , Steve thinks. He’s right.

“So,” she begins, “See anything fun?”

He stifles a laugh that comes out more bitter than intended. “No,” he says, “Not really.” He was always bad at this stuff.

She pouts. “How about her?” she says, gesturing toward a dark-haired woman. The woman is tall and slender with an open back dress daring enough to show off the slope of her spine. She is taking a sip of her martini and speaking with a well-dressed man with a goatee. “She looks like fun.”

She looks like the kind of girl Bucky would go for. “She’s, uh, she’s not my type.”

“Hmm.” Natasha taps her finger on her chin. “You have a type.” She scans the room. “How about her?” She gestures to a small girl with dark skin and short hair, laughing loudly with a group of glitterati.

_She’s cute_ , Steve thinks, but the part of him that will always be a ninety-five pound kid from Brooklyn holds him back. He can see her looking past him, or leaving on a train to Florida. “Nope.”

“Her?” Natasha counters.   
  
“No.”

“How about her?”

“I thought you were a master spy?”

“Shut it, Rogers.”

And so the night continues.

\--

And so the day continues.

They have been on alert for weeks and the Winter Soldier has not said a single word to her. They have their orders and their dispatches, and their days are orderly and dull: sleeping in shifts, eating the standard-issue protein bars, keeping watch over their area. It is all going well, it is all on time. The mission should be completed within two days, whenever the target crosses the threshold of the hotel.

Natalia is on watch. She has a gun pointed through the small window of their attic hide-out, targeting the foyer of the hotel next-door. Natalia is settled. Assassinations are easy.

The Winter Soldier sleeps soundlessly. At least, she thinks that he is the Winter Soldier. Her partner has been given no name, and she has not heard a handler refer to him as anything other than “the asset”.

Still, it feels childish to assume that he is a myth simply because his profile is unknown to her.

The Winter Soldier stirs. Within in moments of waking, he is on his feet. She hates the way that he moves. It is almost inhuman. She does not say a word as they switch shifts. She thinks about his metal arm as she takes his place on the ground. It is still warm. There is no sleep to be had.

“Fall asleep,” the Winter Soldier says in Russian. It startles her so much that she begins to assume a fighting stance before she realizes that it is him. He has a handgun aimed at her. They are working off of reflex.

“Did you speak to me?” she asks. He nods slowly. His eyes are very blue, and they are very dead. He places the gun back into it’s holster.

“Fall asleep,” he repeats. He speaks slowly. His voice is raspy. His pronunciation is too perfect. She does not fall asleep.

Then, “What is your age?”

She hesitates. She does not know if she likes this. “Thirteen years.” That is what they tell her.

“You are very young,” he says. She raises an eyebrow.

“Strange thing to say,” she tells him. She’s seen him train younger. She’s seen him fight younger. If he is who she thinks he is, she knows that he’s killed younger.

He blinks once, twice. “Yes. It was.” He shifts. The sun is beginning to set. This mission is making her weary.

Sleep overcomes her, and she wakes up to the crack of a gunshot. Cold moonlight is streaming in through the holes in the window. The Winter Soldier has taken care of the target. It is go time. She is up, on her feet, and out the door. The Winter Soldier is following directly behind. Within twenty minutes, the hotel is ablaze.

Natalia radios in. They are to meet at a safe-house twenty miles deep in the forest. They steal a car. She is exhilarated, with her hands on the wheel. She has just completed a mission with an agent who could possibly be the _Winter Soldier_. If she were another person, or in another profession, it would be cause for bragging rights.

They dump the car in a nearby lake. The ice has thawed, and it sinks to the bottom without any indication that it had ever been there. They walk the remaining five miles to the safe house. The fire climbs high into the night.

“You are cold,” the Winter Soldier says. It’s true, she is, but it was not a problem. Without speaking, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over her small body.

“Thank you,” she says. She does not know if she means it. What extra warmth she is gaining from the jacket is outweighed by the discomfort she feels. The jacket smells like him. She never forgets it. They wipe her, and it always comes back.

They are on mile three, two more to go, when she notices that he has begun to walk differently. It may be the snow, or exhaustion, but that is unlikely. His movements are less controlled, easier. It is like, slowly, he is beginning to become a human being. Like an artist slowly sketching a drawing of a man, first controlled and then stylized.

“May I see?” she asks Steve, in the future. He moves backward, gives her a view of his sketchbook. Her blood runs cold in her veins.

“It’s Bucky,” he says. _A commando_ , the name registers in her head, but she is too horribly transfixed to take real note of it. “He would always, uh, he would always take his coat off and give it to me in the winter. I really needed it back then, but I would get stubborn about it.” There is fondness in his voice.

She moves her hand, without thinking, to the bullet-wound on her abdomen.

“He seems like a great guy,” she says. Her words fall hollow.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He was.”

\--

Steve is dreaming.

He saves the world. The war ends. They let him go home, but there is no home. So he starts doing missions for SHIELD. He dances with Peggy ( _-_ _lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. It smells like cigarette smoke and something more – husky, like maple, or possibly hardwood finish. It’s an old smell. The floor creaks beneath them. Music croons in the background. His hands are wrapped around Peggy’s -)_.

He marries Peggy. His mother is in the crowd. She is dressed nicer than he’s ever seen. There are tears in her eyes. Peggy is beautiful. Her dress is long, and white, and her lips are red as apples. He kisses Peggy. She runs her hands through his hair. She tells him she loves him. He loves her.

They buy a house. They do not settle down. They save the world a few more times. They have kids. They keep saving the world. They name their girl Josephina. They name their boy James. They grow up strong. They do not get sick. They do not die. They go off and get married, and have children of their own.

Steve does not freeze. Peggy does not forget. They leave flowers for Bucky at Arlington.

“That’s a beautiful dream, Steve,” Peggy says. She squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.

It is the third time that he has told it to her.

\--

The asset does not dream.

“Hello, soldier,” they tell him when he thaws. “You have a mission.”

\--

“You’re my friend!”

“You’re my _mission_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you remember me? how we used to be? do you think we should be closer?


	5. interlude i

Steve has been searching for two months. It is not hopeless. He is not in the dark. He has a trail – HYDRA bases, or former ones now burnt to a black crisp and decimated beyond all repair – he is just too slow. Bucky is one step ahead of them, always.

“Jesus,” Sam says. They had been close, Steve had been sure. This base – a farmhouse twenty miles deep in an Eastern European forest – had been standing.

“Maybe he’s still here,” Steve had said.

Natasha, not a permanent fixture of the brigade but in the area on business and willing to lend a hand, had frozen outside of the house. The burnt corpse of a hotel loomed over them, far away but still foreboding in the cold early morning light. She motioned that she was going to check the back. There were no cars outside.

Inside, the house was a wreck. It had been lived in recently – occupied only a few hours ago, coffee still sitting on the kitchen table – but it was now devoid of life. Furniture thrown, plates broken, windows shattered. Glass shards carpeted the hard-wood floors, knife-marks indented into the wall. It was torn apart, destroyed, unmade. “Jesus,” Sam repeats.

Natasha descends from the stairwell. Her body is poised, but relaxed. There is no immediate danger, but time is of the essence. “There are two bodies upstairs,” she states. “Male and female. HYDRA agents. Still warm.”

“Looks like they put up quite the fight,” Sam comments, looking around. He absentmindedly holds a hand out to stroke the impacted drywall of the landing. It holds the imprint of a body.

“No,” Natasha corrects. “Two clean kills. No damage on the bodies.”

A tense sigh escapes from Steve. “He did this himself.”

“So he just destroyed this place?” Sam asks.

Natasha nods curtly. “He’s unbalanced. He’s confused. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Seemed to have a fine time destroying HYDRA bases these past couple of weeks.”

Natasha bites her lip. “That can’t last forever. If he’s regaining memories, he’s most likely unstable.”

Sam peels a chipping of white paint off of the wall. “Doesn’t know who he is? Doesn’t know if he wants to be a killer?”

“Self and programming vying for control,” Natasha says in a quiet voice. Outside, a bird chirps. It is a beautiful morning.

Steve steels his jaw. “Do we have any idea of where he will go next?” Natasha opens the file, but stops.

“I know where he is now,” she says abruptly.

They follow her back to the hotel, to a building next to the hotel. It is dilapidated, half-burnt, and falling apart. It has been abandoned for years. “Stay here,” she tells them.

\--

_Found you._

\--

The man who used to be the Winter Soldier throws the first punch. It is desperate, erratic, a far cry from the cold, calculated movements of the Soldier. He is like a snarling, caged beast, driven mad by his bars. Steve thinks of Winifred Barnes.

Steve does not fight back. He merely raises his shield. The man who used to be the Winter Soldier throws himself harder. He is off-balance. He hates himself.

“Bucky, please,” Steve says. His opponent shakes his head. His hair is longer, filthy. He looks like an animal. “Bucky.” That’s not his name. He hates himself.

Steve knocks him back. He knocks him back, but does not hit him. The man who used to be the Winter Soldier growls. He knows that he is a threat. He knows that he needs to be destroyed.

But Steve refuses to destroy him. “пожалуйста,” the man who used to be the Winter Soldier pleads. “пожалуйста.”

Steve wishes more than anything that he knew how to speak Russian right now. “Bucky, I don’t know what you’re –“ He is cut off by a frantic barrage of attacks, uncoordinated and almost pathetic.

They both fall to the ground. “Please,” the man who used to be the Winter Soldier moans. He is no longer an asset, no longer a weapon. He has been compromised. He has been lost. He is a monster. “Please.” His body shakes.

\--

After the war, Steve brings him home.


	6. it's an awful sound

Winifred Lancaster stands in a wheat-field. She lets the wind blow her dark hair back, lets it toss the length of her skirt around her strong legs, and feels it on each fingertip. She loves the West, but she does not know it yet. She dreams of bigger things.

She meets a boy named Barnes adjacent to the Ferris wheel at the county fair the summer that she turns eighteen. She falls in love with his smile. She lets him drag her across the country before he leaves her to die in a city that she hates.

James Buchanan Barnes is conceived in a wheat-field. The young lovers hide, and bid each other adieu. A twister tears the field apart. Winifred’s stomach begins to swell. They marry under a weeping willow and disappear into the night.

\--

Steve is watching Bucky breathe. The slow rise and fall of his chest and stomach, his pulse beating lightly, the soft exhale/inhale of his nostrils – it’s amazing. It’s an absolute miracle. The way that - the way that Bucky could be here in 2014, alive, with Steve, no matter what – no matter what –

_Hows he doin?_ Sam texts.

_He’s asleep_ , Steve replies.

Sam does not reply immediately, but when he does it is a resounding _EXCELLENT._

The apartment is quiet and dark. It is new – Steve’s old one was bugged to hell and torn apart. This one is bigger, slightly older. Sam got it for him by calling in a favor. Steve told him that it was unnecessary. Sam shook his head and said “Dude, nobody is gonna be mad about me calling in a favor for Captain America.” Steve likes Sam. Sam’s not afraid to acknowledge him for him, every part of him.

He thinks that Bucky will like Sam, too.

But right now Bucky isn’t in the state to like anyone. Or speak with anyone or interact with anyone. He is catatonic, despondent. Crouched over shaking, or on the defense, or completely motionless. His eyes are wide and empty or wide and brimming with a mix of fear and disgust. It’s like – it’s like –

It’s like during the war. It’s like after Steve got big and saved Bucky. It’s like carrying him out of the HYDRA base, shouldering him back to camp. It’s like the mornings Bucky didn’t shave out of apathy. It’s like every time his uniform – so well-manicured, well-pressed back at home because he always cared about his appearance, always made sure to look his most dashing – was laughably under regulation, wrinkled and stained and hanging off of his body. It’s like the nights of drinking together alone at a table, Bucky clutching his bottle and staring into the void. It’s like the emptiness of his jokes, the bizarre listlessness of his movements.

It’s like he’s frozen.

He came home without trouble. He was subdued. They lead him back to the US like he was a blind dog on a leash.

“какова моя миссия?” he would repeat.

Natasha would not reply.

“какова моя миссия? какова моя миссия? какова моя миссия?” Again and again, each more desperate than the last.

Finally, “Jesus, Natasha, I am about this close to learning Russian just so I can answer this poor son of a bitch!” from Sam.

“какова моя миссия?” he repeated.

Natasha, with an unreadable sigh, said, “вспоминать.”

Steve looked it up. It was spelt incorrectly, and from memory, but the Internet gave him an answer he did not like. “What is my mission?”

“What did you tell him?” Steve asks Natasha. Natasha does not reply.

Bucky stirs in his sleep. Steve’s breath catches. Outside, there is silence. The night is clear. And Steve thinks, this is crazy. Here we are. Together. Because –

Together it was always like they could operate. They lived in each other’s spaces; they carved out the air around them for each other. In Brooklyn, or during the war, it didn’t matter. Where one went, the other followed.

Even to the future. Or, present. Steve has got to stop thinking about this as ‘the future’. It’s not like he’s going to wake up one day, back in Brooklyn, tell everyone “Hey, I’ve been to the future. You will not believe what happened.” This is reality.

Bucky is here. Steve is here. It is 2014. They are alive.

_Never thought I’d make it to 95, did you, Buck?_

Steve pauses, thinks of Bucky staring out across the city lights on hot summer nights or gazing down the snowy heights in Europe.

_Never thought you’d make it to 95, did you, Buck?_

He closes his eyes, presses his hands to his forehead. He really shouldn’t be happy about this, he shouldn’t. Bucky is – is so – _suffering_. And Steve is so god damn selfish to want this, to be happy with this. He chokes back a dry sob. He’s too exhausted to deal with issues of morality tonight.

He treads lightly to his room down the hall, quiet enough not to wake Bucky but loud enough to let Bucky know where he is going if he is listening.

Steve wakes up in his bed, conscious of the soft blue beams of early morning light falling across the room, and of the heavy weight pressing down beside him on his mattress. His heart hitches. His fingers twitch with panic. He rolls over slowly, and carefully, to find Bucky lying beside him.

He is above the covers and awake, lying flat on his back and staring up at the plaster on the ceiling. His eyes blank, body still, Steve is worried for a split-second that Bucky is dead. “Bucky?” Steve murmurs.

Bucky shakes his head. It is a slow, deliberate action. He’s not dead. “Not Bucky?” Steve steels himself, thinks of all of the ways he could defend himself from here. The man who used to be the Winter Soldier has been non-violent, docile even. So far. Steve knows that could change. “What can I call you?”

“I don’t have a name,” he replies. It is the longest coherent English sentence Steve has been able to get out of him since he came home.

“Yes, you do,” Steve says. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Something violent passes over his companion’s face, but it is subdued. “Then my name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Can I just call you James?”

James thinks for a very long time before saying “Yes.”

(Natasha tells Steve later, “Weapons do not have names. Names are for targets. Names are for people. You are a weapon, not a person. You forget what it is like to be named. You forget what it is like to have a name. You do not have a name because you are not a person. You allowed him a name. You allowed him a choice. You told him that he could be a person.”)

James has his own room, but he has nightmares. He cannot sleep in beds. They restrict him. He cannot sleep on his own because he screams. He finds his way to Steve’s floor, to the space at the end of Steve’s bed. He sleeps fitfully, on guard. He is like a watchdog.

It’s almost, Steve thinks, like sleeping back in Brooklyn.

They had one bed, back then. And at first Bucky slept on the floor, and then the couch, but by winter they had taken to sharing the mattress. “Gotta keep you warm, Stevie,” Bucky had said once. But they stayed together throughout that spring, and then the summer (even when it was so hot they were stripped and sweating and pushed to the farthest corners, they did not separate), and then on until the war called them.

Layered in clothing, that first winter, like they were boys. Bucky facing Steve’s back, pulling the smaller body toward his chest. Bucky ran hot. Steve was always cold. It was an arrangement. And Bucky would place his chin on Steve’s head, and they would find their legs entwined. It was natural. It was home. They stayed like that, conjoined, until it was the only way that they could sleep.

After months of empty beds – the lonely one in the apartment, the cold ones at basic, the uninviting hotel beds along the road – Steve had thought, in Europe, they could finally get their rest. Bucky, walking dead on his feet and turned out from medical with a stellar rating for a soldier fresh off the torture rack, had seemed to think the same. Words were not spoken as they climbed into bed together.

But Bucky’s arms couldn’t wrap around Steve like they used to it, and his body could not protect the other’s. And he fidgeted, the frustration growing more apparent with each passing moment. They did not fit. They did not fit together, and –

Finally, Steve rolled over. They faced each other. Bucky looked tired, so tired, barely there. Steve wrapped his arms around him, entwined his legs like they used to.

There was a moment of silence, of calm. Then Bucky unraveled. He reclaimed his legs, fought out of Steve’s arms. Rolled to the far corner of the bed. In that moment, Steve realized, he would have given everything that the serum gave him – everything – back for this.

They slept separately for the rest of the war.

But they found each other on missions, in taverns. Bucky always had Steve’s back. They always sat together. Steve would flit from table to table, meshing seamlessly with the Commandos and officers, but he would always return to Bucky.

And Bucky – Bucky would drink – drink like –

Steve does not know this. Steve never met Bucky’s father; he died before the remaining Barnes’ moved in down the street. Steve would not have wanted to meet Bucky’s father.

Bucky would drink like his father. George Barnes usually wasn’t violent, but there were other ways to hurt people; he often found himself stuck in stasis at the bottom of a bottle while Winifred paced around him. From his spot at the kitchen table he would watch Bucky, bark a quick “C’mere boy,” and ruffle his hair or raise a fist that never fell. Bucky would listen from the room over, holding his sister and brothers, and waiting for the fights to be over.

“Have you been looking for a job?” Winifred would say.

“I’ve been looking,” he would reply, and she would continue with “I just don’t want it to be like last time,” and things would escalate until, with a quiet graveness of tone and stiffness of body, Winifred Barnes would say “I should have never married you.”

“Well, you’re here ain’t you?”

“You took advantage of me.”

He would smirk and say “You seemed to be enjoyin’ it.”

And she would break and say “I was just a little girl! I didn’t know any better!”

And he would sneer and yell, with a slurring voice and snarling countenance, “If you’re so unhappy, send a fucking letter to that dyke sister of yours and tell her about what a bad guy I am! Until then, shut the hell up and sit down.”

Bucky would hold onto Rebecca and shut his eyes, and in the morning his father would be apologetic and gentle through the hangover, or he wouldn’t be there at all. He’d return days later with a black eye and gifts, and kiss Winifred and Rebecca, and shake Bucky’s shoulder while whispering tales of the Barnes family back through the centuries, until he died like a pig in Brooklyn, abandoning Winifred and leaving Bucky with the responsibility of continuing a family line that stretched into eternity.

Bucky would knock back another glass, sitting at an oak table much like the one that seemed to sit in the center of every kitchen of every childhood home he ever had. A little boy would pull at his sleeve, and whisper warnings and reminders, and Bucky would emphatically tell him to “Fuck off.” And he would nurse a drink, next to Steve, who wasn’t really Steve anymore, was he?

_Of course he is_ , Bucky would tell himself. _You’re just being a dick because he’s not all yours anymore_. Agent Carter would make eyes at Steve from across the room. He would watch Steve make eyes back. He would knock back another glass and sleep alone and wake up and kill someone.

George Barnes killed people. He was in the army. It was the only thing Bucky liked about his father – an imagined bravery, a noble heroism. Now the thought of his father behind a rifle makes his stomach churn.

George Barnes was born in Chicago to a woman who died before she ever saw his face. His father smoked cheap cigars and ruined people’s lives for money. He had two brothers, both older, and together the four of them crisscrossed the country leaving chaos in their wake.

George was handsome. He was the cutest of the Barnes boys, he got all the ladies. He split with his father after an argument. He joined a traveling circus. He met a girl named Lancaster adjacent to the Ferris wheel at a country fair the summer that he turned twenty-four. She was young and beautiful. He fell in love with her eyes. He romanced her easy, fucked her in a wheat-field and missed his ride out of town. He found a job as a farmhand, cursed the locals under his breath and fucked her a couple of more times.

She came to him in tears one night. He thought about running, weighed his options, and decided maybe a kid could be fun. He married her under a weeping willow. It was all very romantic. It was her idea. They eloped, caught a train out of town. Met with his dad in Milwaukee. Had a kid in Cleveland. Went to war. Had another kid in Tampa. Had two more in Virginia.

And as time rolled on for him, for them, money got tighter. And things got less bright. The things that he used to chase – get rich quick schemes, drugs, women – stopped rewarding him as often. And Winifred turned away.

He died like a pig in Brooklyn. Winifred paced around the apartment.

James paces around the apartment. He does not stalk, he paces. Steve is just happy to see him doing something distinctly Barnes-like.

It is the only Barnes-like thing he is doing.

He sleeps two hours a night at the foot of Steve’s bed, spends the rest of his time alone in his room or pacing in the living room. He eats with his hands, refuses to use utensils or sit at the table, he perches in the corner and devours his food whole. Steve’s never seen him bathe. He doesn’t smell or look particularly dirty, so he must get clean somehow, but he’s never heard the faucets running. Never seen a towel he didn’t use himself in the hamper.

Steve talks to him. Steve talks to him a lot, about all kinds of things. Memories, observations, New York. It is a one sided conversation. James doesn’t talk a lot. Sometimes he murmurs half-words. Usually, he screams in Russian while he sleeps.

There is no space to carve out between them. There is the lack of space. There is a lack of connection. Steve’s breath is shallow. James blinks slowly. Steve wonders if there is anyone in there at all.

One day, he is talking. It’s a warm evening, and the sky is a soft grey. There is a storm front moving through, but it has not hit yet. He’s talking about – well, he’s talking about an old fight that they had, the one that he spent a four hour run trying to remember and howled at with laughter when he finally did. He’s chuckling as he’s retelling it. Out loud, putting words to it, it’s even funnier somehow. He thinks that Tony would probably appreciate it. He knows that Bucky appreciated it; he can remember rehashing the story on a hot summer night spent on top of their apartment building.

James is staring.

Steve is getting to the best part when is interrupted.

“I’m not him,” James says. He is abrupt in manner. He is matter-of-fact.

Steve furrows his brow, caught off-guard.

“I’m not him,” James repeats. “I am not your friend. That is not me. I do not know him. I am sorry. It is apparent that you cared about him very much.” His face is devoid of emotion.

Outside, it starts to rain.


	7. when you hit the ground

The sky is painted like a watercolor, dull yellows and pinks. Bucky’s lips are red, and he is leaning against a wooden box. Their feet are dangling over the water. Steve is dreaming. Steve is fifteen. “You’re my best friend,” he says.

Steve knows how this should go. He looks to Bucky, expectantly. Bucky looks back and shakes his head. “No Steve,” he says. He takes a long glance out into the calm ocean water before standing up. 

“Bucky, what are you –“ Steve begins, but he stops. Bucky walks away, reaches behind a crate on the dock, and reveals a cracked, but ornate picture frame. Moving briskly past Steve, Bucky hurls it into the ocean.

Steve jumps to his feet. He’s small, but he has the same vigor here as he does after the serum. “What are you doing?” he asks. Bucky gives him a sad look, wipes his hand on his pants, and pulls out another piece of furniture, this time a wooden rocking chair. “Is that –“

It is. The same furniture from Bucky’s childhood apartment. What was left of Winifred Barnes. One by one, Bucky throws it into the ocean. He’s taller here, Steve realizes, looks more like a man than a teenager. There are dark circles under his eyes. The war has not been kind to him. 

Bucky is working faster now. He throws things, pushes things over the edge of the dock. They fall into the ocean with a splash, sink under the depths or float away. Steve watches idly, at a loss. 

Until Bucky pushes out the couch, an old drab thing with faded pink roses, whose cushions had laid the basis for boyhood adventures. “Whoa,” Steve says. “No, you do not.” He steps in front of the couch.

“Steve, get the hell out of the way,” Bucky growls at him. His voice booms. Steve stands his ground. 

“Bucky, this is crazy,” he says, pushing his full weight against the couch. “You have got to stop.”

“I can do whatever the hell I please, and you have got to move!” he yells. There are tears in his eyes.

“No!” Steve shouts back. 

“Move!” Bucky roars one more time, before giving it his all. Steve barely makes it out of the way, making a hard landing on the swollen wood of the dock. The couch falls into the ocean with a loud splash. The cold water hits his neck, puts his hair on end. 

Steve rolls up onto his knees, onto his feet. Bucky is crouched at the end of the dock, struggling with something around his neck. They glint silver in the light. “Hell no,” Steve says. “I am not going to let you toss your dog tags!” Bucky snarls. Steve tries to snatch them. Bucky fights back, until the two are on top of each other. 

“Bucky, knock it off!” Steve shouts. Bucky fights ruthlessly, but it is not reformed. There is no trace of soldier or assassin in his movements; he is fighting like a frightened kid on the streets of Brooklyn. 

“Steve, please,” Bucky sobs. His face is wet and his body is shaking, with anger or sorrow Steve cannot tell. “Please,” he repeats. Steve fights harder, arms wrapped up in each other, trying to reach the dog tags. “Please, пожалуйста,  пожалуйста !” With one last blow of force, Bucky pushes Steve off of him palm square in the face. Steve rolls off beside of him. 

The sky changes colors above them. They lie side by side, both panting. Steve is losing ground, losing air. He wheezes, and sits up in a panic. It’s been so long since this happened, he had almost forgotten that it is a possibility. Bucky is beside him immediately, and they are re-enacting a script that they both know very well.

“It’s okay,” Bucky sobs once Steve is grounded. “It’s okay, Stevie, I couldn’t do it.” Bucky presses his forehead into Steve’s cheek. The dog tags are on the dock between them. They read “STEVEN G ROGERS”. 

Steve wakes up in a cold sweat. He can hear James pacing in the kitchen, the soles of his feet padding on the tile floor. It is two in the morning. Outside, a car drives past. 

\--

They are in Europe, somewhere, when it happens.

Bucky is in a tavern. He is alone that night, for whatever reason. He is frozen at a counter, hand curled tightly around a glass. The bodies around him are in suspended animation. The ash of war is coated thick on his skin. The god of death pulls at his eyelids.

He stumbles blindly to the door. His bones ache for Brooklyn. He feels a foul, freezing thing. Tomorrow night may never come. The mud is cold underneath his boots. 

He’s stopped jacking off to chicks. Why bother any more, if you could die at any minute. He’s already a mess. Killing’s stopped bothering him, why should liking guys be any different? He knows he’s sick. He laughs bitterly. Being a fairy (yeah, he’s gonna admit it, might as well make peace with himself before he kicks the bucket) is the least of his problems. Better to just give in. 

And so he gives in. 

The boy on his lap has dark curls. He reminds him of Ruth, if he’s being honest. The boy’s skinny and young. He doesn’t speak much English, but he repeats “Soldier, soldier.” Bucky kisses him hard to shut him up. It doesn’t work.

“Talking isn’t what I’m paying you for,” Bucky growls in his ear. He doesn’t know how much the boy understands, but it gets the point across. 

The boy uses his mouth for other things. It’s the first time that Bucky’s ever been with a man. He’s thought of it, dreamt of it even though he told himself not to. The boy smells better, feels better, fits better than any girl that he’s ever been with. And Bucky’s drunk –god, is he drunk – and he fucks that boy into oblivion. 

He pays, and he goes back, and he falls asleep. In the morning, he remembers the night before and his ears burn red with shame. He buries his head in his hands, and a sob catches in his throat. 

“Hey, Buck, you alright?” Steve asks. Bucky shoots up, swallows his sadness.

“Yeah, Steve, I’m fine. Yourself?”

Steve wipes eyes. He’s tired. “Alright, I s’pose.” He’s so strong now. It’s weird to see him anything less than on top. It reminds Bucky of home. 

Steve sits down on the cot next to Bucky. Bucky thinks of the boy from last night. If Steve knew – if Steve knew that his best friend was a fag – if he knew what Bucky’s hands had done that night before, if he had any idea –

Silently, Steve leans his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky inhales sharply. Steve’s hair is soft on his cheek, and he smells like soap and something that’s just so Steve it makes his chest ache. 

“Rough night?” Steve asks.  His voice is quiet. Somewhere far away there is a war on. 

Bucky doesn’t reply. Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s fingers. Steve runs so warm now. Bucky won’t have to warm him up during the winter any more, like he used, back in Brooklyn. 

There are tears in Bucky’s eyes. He tries to push them back. Steve strokes Bucky’s palm. They are together. They carve out the space around them. 

In three weeks, Bucky will be gone, and Steve will be on a suicide mission. 

\--

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Sam asks, his voice panicked on the other end of the phone line.

“He’s gone,” Steve explains. There is a manic energy about his movements. “He’s not here.”

“I’ll be right over.” Sam is prompt. “Natasha knows?”

“Natasha knows. She’s scouting the area.”

“He couldn’t have gone far.”

“I’m not worried about how far away he is,” Steve says. 

They hit the streets. It is a late summer night, but there is a chill in the air like autumn is blowing an ominous wind over the city. They move quickly. They move with purpose. Steve is aware of an empty hole in his chest, a vast expanse that stretches across houses and buildings. It is like a broken heart bleeding out.

It is dawn on the third day when Natasha says, “He does not want to be found.”

Steve is functioning only off of some reserved back-power; he is so exhausted that he feels like a thin, grey piece of paper. He will not accept that. He cannot accept that. But he hasn’t slept in three days. He returns to his empty apartment. He sleeps for ten hours. He wakes up, and goes back out again. 

He has checked every old haunt twice over, but he returns to his old neighborhood because it is the only thing he has left. Bucky could be across the ocean by now, he could be long gone, he could be dead. Steve knows that Fury has been notified, and there are former SHIELD agents scouting country after country for him. He’s a potential threat. 

But he’s Bucky. 

The drugstore that stands in place of their apartment is open, but empty save for a lone teenager manning the register. It’s the dead of night and quiet. Steve prowls. He buys a candy bar and continues to walk. He follows streets, both different and changed, up and down. He stops to linger at the building he grew up in. It’s vacant, but the structure is the same. If he tries, he can almost see himself on the stairs, or his mother on the porch waving to Bucky to come up. The dull recollections of a promise. Steve feels numb. 

Steve feels pressure on his back and then the sting of a blade on his neck. 

“Give me one reason why I should not kill you where you stand.”

Steve closes his eyes. “Buck – James.”

James presses the knife closer to Steve’s throat. “We’re friends, James.”

James growls. “No, we’re  not .” But his voice cracks as he says it. Steve sees the opportunity and takes it. He spins back, disarming James. They brawl. It’s fast-paced, but not erratic. Steve thinks of DC, before. James fights like the Soldier. 

“James – “ Steve shouts. “James – Bucky!” 

James is caught off balance. “I’m not him!” he roars, coming at Steve with an attack that’s ferocious, but uncoordinated.

“Then why did you come here?” Steve asks. James balks. 

“Stop it, Steve!” he yells, sounding too much like Bucky. 

“No,” Steve says. He blocks another attack. “Why did you run?”

“Stop it!” he warns again. He’s begun to throw punches more like a schoolboy than a trained assassin. His footing is all wrong, his stance is unprofessional. Steve sees that he’s limping on his right leg. 

Another flurry of attacks and Bucky is on his knees. He is sobbing and shaking his head. He looks so small, to Steve, and so weak.

“Why did you follow me?” he begs, hysterical. “Couldn’t you have just let me go?” It is the most emotion that Steve has seen from him in, well, decades, and it nearly knocks him over. 

“End of the line, pal,” Steve echoes. He pants, and kneels.

Bucky looks up. “I  hate you.”

Steve’s face falls apart, and his body sags. He is enflamed and burning bright with pain.

Bucky’s face twists, and he turns away. “I want to die,” he says. 

Steve takes a deep breath. “Then I’m coming with you,” he replies. There is no leverage behind it, no taunt. It is sheer honesty. It is the verbalization of a thread that has followed Steve forever: there is no life without Bucky. 

“You’re stupider than I thought,” Bucky tells him. 

“I thought you hated me.”

Bucky shakes his head, buries his face in his hands. “Why won’t you let me go?”

Steve considers. “Because I’m selfish. Because I can’t do that. Because if our situations were reversed, I know that you wouldn’t let me out of your sight.”

Bucky knots his hair in his fists. “You don’t know me at all,” he hisses.

“No,” Steve says. “I don’t. Not anymore. But I would like to get to know you.”

“I don’t want to get to know  you ,” Bucky murmurs. His eyes are wet, but his breathing is regular again. Strands of hair stick to his cheeks. 

“You should probably just kill me, then,” Steve says. He can feel a bruise forming on the left side of his ribcage. It will heal in a few hours, but right now it hurts to breathe. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky swallows hard, closes his eyes. “ Stevie –“ he begins, but his voice cracks and waivers. Steve’s heart leaps into his throat. 

“Yeah, Buck?” he replies. His voice is weak, and quiet, and it trembles. 

“I’m  not –  I’m not your friend. I’m not the guy that you used to know. He died – he died a long time ago.”

A cold wind blows over them. “Alright,” Steve says. “Then who are you now?”

Bucky’s nostrils flare, his eyes harden. “I’m not anybody.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not the guy you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be anything you aren’t.”

Bucky huffs. “I’m a monster!”

“Bullshit! I read your file; Bucky, you and I both know you had no control over your actions!”

Bucky winces, draws out his words. “But I remember them.” 

Steve blinks. Bucky’s breathing begins to grow more erratic. He nods, closes his eyes, and massages his temples. He is shaking just slightly. 

“Do you – what else do you remember?” 

“Not a lot.” Bucky bites his lip. “More than I let on.” Steve inhales sharply. “Mostly about you.” Bucky rubs his eyes. “But it’s, there’s so much –“

“What?”

Bucky sobs. “Evil, Steve, I’m not – I’m not a good person. I don’t, I’m not the kind of person that gets to be a hero, Steve. I don’t deserve – I’m not the guy at the museum.”

“Is that what this is –“

“No!” Bucky says. “Not completely. When you talk about him –“

“About you,” Steve corrects quietly. “When I talk about you.”

Bucky shakes his head. “When you talk about him, he’s always so good.”

Steve laughs, despite himself. “Would you prefer it if I track down all of the people that thought you were an asshole?”

Bucky pauses. “Yeah,” he says. “I would prefer that.”

Steve leans back a little, feigning relaxation. “Well, you pissed off about half of the girls in Brooklyn. We could start by walking into any nursing home, there’s bound to be some dames that still want to sock you.”

Bucky snorts. It’s the most beautiful sound that Steve has ever heard. 

He continues. “We could track down Ruth Mathers’ great grand-daughter. Knowing Ruth, you’re a family legend.” Steve stops, and his heart sinks. He hadn’t told Bucky about Ruth, but:

Bucky’s lip twitches and he says, “Yeah, Ruthie was pretty miffed at me when I broke it off. I don’t think I ever told you that story, but she was mad as hell.” His face falls, eyes wide with shock at his own words. 

Steve leans forward, trying to ignore Bucky’s face. This is good, this is good. “You know, her great-granddaughter did contact me a while back. She sent me a drawing that I did of Ruth. I couldn’t believe she kept it.”

Bucky furrows his brow. He chooses his words carefully, but the message is expressed naturally. “Ruthie probably ended up telling people she had gone steady with you.”

Steve guffaws. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day!”

Bucky frowns. “I –  he felt very bad about that. He pretended he didn’t notice, but it upset him.”

Steve winces. “It doesn’t matter, Bucky.” Bucky looks at him sadly. Steve forces a wry smile. “Besides, you wisened up.”

“Do you still draw?” Bucky asks. His voice is low and fragile. 

Steve nods. “Yeah, I do.”

Bucky chews on his bottom lip. He’s calmed down some and is collapsed on himself with a melancholy sort of exhaustion. “He thought that you were very good. He wanted to send you to art school.”

Steve’s smiles sadly. “I didn’t know that.”

Bucky furrows his brow again. He looks almost nervous. “Would you want to go to art school now?” he says, finally. 

“I haven’t thought about it. ‘Sides, I dunno if they’d still take me.”

“They would,” Bucky says immediately. He notes Steve’s surprised expression, and explains. “You are very good. They would have to take you.”

Steve smiles. It is warm. It makes Bucky uncomfortable, but something in his heart beams with pride. “Thanks, Buck,” he says. 

Around them, the sun is beginning to rise, and Steve thinks of another sunny morning way back in 1925. He can hear the sound of footsteps and the sharp pain of a fist against his cheek bone, the harsh reality of being beaten up in the back of some Brooklyn alleyway for the three pennies in his pocket. He’s an easy target, he knows, and he’s starting to become dimly aware of some incoherent yelling around him. Suddenly, he’s on the ground, and the bullies are off him, and there’s a kid who’s his size, but ferocious in manner, helping him up. 

“Hi, I’m Bucky!” the kid says, and he sticks a sweaty hand out. Steve takes it because he’s at a loss, because he has no idea what’s going on besides the fact that his nose is dripping syrupy blood all over his nice shirt, and his mom is going to kill him, and the kid (Bucky) says “My house is right over there and my mom is home, and she can clean you up if you’d like!”

And Steve nods, and Steve screams Bucky’s name as he falls to his wintery doom, and in 2014 Sam Wilson tells him “It’s like you were just there to watch,” and it so aptly sums up everything that Steve spends the debriefing with Natasha rolling it over and over again in his head. In 1925, Winifred Barnes, recently widowed, wipes at Steve’s nose with a wet rag while her eldest son – the only one that she has left – talks on and on to his newfound friend. The rag is cold and it makes Steve shiver, shiver like he did as the plane fell into the arctic, and as his body fell into the Potomac. 

And in 2011, he woke up, and in 2014, strong hands pulled him from the river and dropped his bleeding, broken body on the shoreline, before those hands ran away to kill and maim, and then shake and tremble. Those hands that held him tight on the night of his mother’s death, and those hands that fit so well on his hips as they swayed together for what seemed like hours before Bucky broke it apart over something that looked like fear, and those hands he failed to grasp when it mattered the most.

It matters the most. 

Steve stretches out a hand. “Do you want to go home, Bucky?” he asks. Bucky looks up. He is tired. He is filthy. 

He says yes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post today, I'm away from home. Thank you so much to everyone who is reading! :)


	8. think it over and say

There are mid-morning thunderstorms moving in. Bucky leans against Steve’s broad shoulder, a mix of pain and exhaustion overcoming his ability to make it home by himself. Steve thinks that they must have given him something when he was the Soldier – something that suppressed pain – and now Bucky doesn’t know his limits. Steve hangs on tighter, supports him better. Bucky presses his weight into Steve, and the fact that Bucky’s real and tangible and this close but not trying to kill him is enough to make him smile, despite it all.

They stumble home in a daze, and by the time they make it back to the apartment there are dark rain clouds threatening to spill at any moment. The air is thick with anticipation. Bucky waits patiently. Steve worries returning home will be like a reset, that all of the ground they covered will have been lost.

“First things first, we need to get you cleaned up,” Steve says. He feels suddenly shy, but his voice booms comforting, reassuring. Bucky nods. Steve can’t tell if it’s because he thinks he agrees, or if it’s because he thinks it was a command. It makes his stomach twist.

The bathroom is well-stocked, newly retiled and decorated with forest green ornamentation. Steve leaves Bucky perched on the toilet seat. It has begun to rain outside. Steve watches it momentarily through the cold, grey windows of his bedroom as he fetches clothing. In the bathroom, Steve can hear Bucky moving around. It is slow, methodic, but strangely normal. There is the right amount of shuffling, the right amount of clinking glasses.

Steve returns to find him mostly naked from the bottom down, cleaning out his wounds with the smart precision of a surgeon. They aren’t as bad as Steve was expecting, but they are fresh, blood red and grimy, inflamed. They will scar.

Steve is suddenly aware at the dirt caked on his friend’s skin, the way that his hair hangs in greasy strands down the side of his face. “Would you like to take a shower?” he asks, hyper-aware of sounding too authoritarian. _Give him a choice_ , he can hear Natasha saying.

Bucky looks at him like he’s dumb. It’s classic Bucky, has the right amount of sarcasm and fondness. He nods. Steve relaxes.

“Do you know how to work it?” he asks. “They’ve gotten a lot more complicated since the ‘40s.”

“I don’t know, old man, why don’t you show me?” Bucky says. Steve smiles.

“Okay,” Steve says, stepping into the shower. “Switch this knob to turn it on, right means cold and left means hot. They’ve got hot water on demand here. If you had told me that when we were kids, I would have laughed you right out of Brooklyn.” He laughs nervously, and stands up straight. “Call me if you need anything –“ he begins to say, but he stops.

Bucky has been undressing. His dirty clothes are peeled off, lying in piles on the floor. He’s completely naked, and his frankness catches Steve off guard, but it’s not what stops Steve dead in his tracks. The mass of dark and knotted flesh around his left arm, the horrible jigsaw pattern of scars across his chest and back that trail down his legs – it kills the words in his mouth. He’s seen Bucky naked before, when they were kids and during the war, and he knew the story and cause for each scar. He can see familiar marks mixed in with the devastating amount of unfamiliar ones, and the new wound like a bright star on his right calf.

He swallows a mix of hatred and righteous fury, remembers himself and averts his eyes. If Bucky notices, he doesn’t say anything. Bucky notices and doesn’t say anything. Steve feels like he’s going to be sick with understanding. Bucky isn’t the man he used to be, and the story that makes all of the difference between the boy who fell away from the train and the ex-soldier standing in Steve’s bathroom is written in flesh.

As if to stop this train of thought, Bucky steps into the shower, between Steve and the faucet. Steve steps away immediately, completely aware of privacy. “Bucky-“ he begins to say, quietly, but it turns into a shriek when Bucky turns on the water. Half-soaked, he steps completely out of the shower. Bucky’s gives him a devious but friendly look, half-watching Steve and half messing with the controls, leaning into the stream of water all but for his right leg.

Steve’s dirty too, so the water is not an unwelcome guest. “Do you want me to stay with you?” he asks.

“That will not be necessary,” Bucky says, but Steve thinks that there might be the hint of a smile behind the words.

Steve nods, and leaves his friend to himself. He peels off his own clothing, and changes into sweat pants and a soft, white shirt. He can shower later. He sits outside of the bathroom door, back against the hallway wall. He can hear the low rumble of thunder in the distance.

It seems like ages, and to be honest he nearly nods off, but eventually there is a low knock on the bathroom door. “Steve?” he can hear.

“Yeah, Buck?” he asks, wide awake.

“Where are your towels?” Bucky’s voice is unsure. Steve jumps to his feet.

“I forgot towels!” he exclaims. “I’ll be right back,” he says, already on the move. It’s a quick recovery, but he can’t help but laugh at himself. He knocks on the door.

It opens slowly, as though Bucky is scouting for threat, and it releases a gentle burst of warm, nice-smelling air. It’s comforting. “I’m sorry,” Steve offers, weakly. He almost expects Bucky to tear into him, but the look of quiet fondness in Bucky’s half-dead, drooping eyes is enough.

Cleaned up, he looks much better. Steve thinks it must be the first real shower he’s had in a long time. He’s still sopping wet, with hair stuck to the sides of his face and neck, beading water down his chest and onward. He looks almost pathetic; like he has been lost for so long he no longer has the strength to fight against even minor inconveniences. Without thinking, Steve wraps the towel around Bucky’s head.

He stops, panicked, but Bucky doesn’t do anything but turn his head. Silently, he opens the door further. Like a dream, Steve enters. The bathroom is warm, but safe. Steve’s sweat pants are hanging loosely around Bucky’s hips. Steve’s mouth runs dry, and he thinks of the summer of 1942, on a rooftop, when he accepted that he was attracted to his best friend _( - not that anything will ever come of it, Steve, Bucky’s just about the straightest guy you know, and besides would you really risk all of this for a chance to get beaten up and kicked out by the only guy who ever gave a shit about you?)._

Bucky hands the towel back to Steve, and stares at the ground. Steve is wary. He squeezes the towel, and takes a guess. He throws it back around Bucky’s head, and knots his fingers into the material, until he is effectively wringing out Bucky’s hair. It’s weird – he knows it’s weird – but he doesn’t care, just being this close to Bucky is enough for him. They’re only inches apart, and Bucky’s metal hand is on Steve’s shoulder. His heart rate has increased in turn, but Bucky simply steadies himself.

“There,” Steve says, pulling the towel off of his head. “Much better.” The damp strands of hair still hang limply, but Bucky looks much more put together. Bucky pulls the navy blue shirt over his head.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, before leaving Steve to himself. His face is unreadable. “I am going to sleep.”

Steve cleans up the bathroom. He can hear Bucky pacing in the room over, in Steve’s bedroom. He can hear the low roar of the storm pushing through.

When he’s finished, he finds Bucky in his bed, beneath the blankets. He looks asleep, but his breathing is too quick. Steve sits on the side of the bed. “You’ve done this before,” Bucky says. “You and him shared beds.”

“Couldn’t afford another one,” Steve explains. He slides in between the sheets. The sound of the rain is making him drowsy.

“He could have slept on the floor, or the couch,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve leans straight back with his head on his pillow. Bucky is beside him, rolled to face him, but the two have ample room. “He – you – did sometimes.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. Steve turns away, out of habit. He closes his eyes, feels cold metal on his arm, and opens them immediately. He can feel Bucky cringe, steel himself, but his companion doesn’t pull away. Steve relaxes. Eventually, they entwine. Steve is conscious of Bucky’s wounded leg, but it feels natural. It feels like home. Steve smiles wide into his pillow and blinks back tears.

His companion shakes quietly beside him, digging his face into the small of Steve’s back. Steve turns. They are a fluid motion, together, carving out the space around them. It storms. Steve faces Bucky, wraps his arms around him. Bucky whimpers and buries his face into Steve. The dam has broken, whatever fragile layer of programming that had been keeping Bucky down has shattered, and Bucky feels like a drowning man, clawing at whatever salvation he can find. He digs his fingers into Steve’s arms. It will bruise in the morning.

Neither of them care.


	9. "i'm never going back again"

Supplies: scissors, shaving cream, razors. A damp towel. A mirror. Band-aids (this was Steve’s idea).

They are laid in precise positions across the white, porcelain sink. An oldies station is on the kitchen; Bucky can hear it crooning through the walls. He’s alone in the apartment. Steve is out doing something for Nick Fury. Bucky’s not sure if he likes Nick Fury. He makes him nervous, taps into some part of his programming that tells him to bare his neck, open his mouth, and ask “какова моя миссия?”

Bucky’s anxious. He’s more anxious than he wants to admit. He twirls the razor in his hands like he used to do with his pocket knives. What if he doesn’t recognize the face in the mirror? What would it mean? A tangible disconnect between the “he” and “I”. A disappointment.

And to think that disappointing Steve would have been so welcome, before, just weeks ago when he railed against the figure of his friend. Angry and petulant, confused and haunted by the man on the bridge, whose memory and body chased him, despite all of his best efforts, across land and sea before finally dragging him back to a home he barely remembered. He rationalized it then: this guy must be important. But his queries went unanswered, until the red-head (who he could see just at the edges of his brain, like a mist) barked at him to “remember”. Remember? That’s the stupidest goddamn mission objective he had ever heard, and the fact that he had the gall to even question mission objectives (and with such colorful language!) knocked him back onto his ass.

Bucky pulls his hair back. It’s down past his shoulders now, shaggy and dull. He’s got a full beard, too. He has no opinion on it, but in all of the pictures he’s found Bucky Barnes is clean-shaven, and he thinks that maybe that means something. He takes a deep breath.

Living with Steve had been like torture, like a drawn-out and personal torture exasperated by the slow appearance of what Bucky imagines is a moral compass. It sunk up from the depths of some former consciousness and, like a compass, steered him in the direction of “right” and “wrong”, not that he really understood the basis for “right” and “wrong”, but he had them now and they were awful. Some dry, sarcastic part of him that was both programming and wasn’t mocked him for it, but he would wake up from memories and half-recollections, and they were familiar but now it was like they were alive, and they were terrible, and he was terrible.

But Steve would be there, shining like a goddamn golden light. He was _beautiful_ , so beautiful that it hurt to look at him. Bucky resented him for it. And Steve was obviously in love with Bucky, or whoever he thought Bucky was. He would talk on and on and on about all of this bullshit, and at first it was so boring that Bucky wanted to shoot his brains out (was this programming? Or was this just the worst of him?), but then he started to actually listen. _It’s sad_ , Bucky would tell himself, _because this target’s obviously got the wrong guy_ , but that was a lie because Bucky could remember this stuff, he could remember all of it and more and more of it every day.

He would pace up and down the hallway, and throughout the kitchen. Two incompatible versions of himself, at opposite ends of that compass, and the needle spun in wild circles. And shit, there was something underneath it all that really liked that stupid blond guy, something deeper than all of his programming that told him _“Protect this, this is important.”_ Soon protecting him meant leaving, but he followed again, until Bucky was too tired to fight back any more.

And as the storms raged on around them, something inside of Bucky cracked. In that moment it was like he was back. He had come back.

Now he stands in front of the mirror, dripping wet. His hair’s combed out. He grabs a section, grabs the scissors, and _snips_.

“You are so whipped,” he can hear that part of him that’s programming and not-programming say.

“You’re one to talk,” he says back, and cuts off another section. Then, when his hair had fallen all around him, he lathered his face and stood by gleefully as something akin to muscle memory took over. For a moment, he could smell a burning acrid smoke on a warm breeze; see the cracked mirror in the tiny bathroom of what he knew from Steve was the apartment they shared.

He opens his eyes. Cleans his face. Cleans up. Avoids the mirror. Nervously approaches the mirror.

The resemblance is insane, and its intensity makes Bucky’s heart flutter. He looks like a living photograph, one that would be found in that museum. It fills him with a manic sort of energy. He paces the apartment. Steve tells him that his mother used to do that. Bucky doesn’t remember his mother.

As he paces, something seizes his heart. What if Steve doesn’t like it? What if this was the wrong move? Bucky wrings his hands, squeezes the unfeeling metal one as hard as possible. His pacing grows more erratic, his breathing quickens. He’s stuck.

There are voices. One voice. Steve is outside the door, talking with a neighbor. The door opens. Bucky stops, stares.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, without really looking. He sets down a bag of groceries on the counter, looks up and pauses. “Wow,” he says, eyes wide. Bucky wants to die. “You look great,” he finally finishes, as though he had forgotten what he was saying.

“Is it – ?“ Bucky tries to say, but the words aren’t really making it out. He hates it when he gets like this, so nervous and caught up in himself that he can’t grasp the slick edge of reality. He moves his hand around his hair, and winces, as if to get his point across.

“Bucky,” Steve says with that tone of finality and authority that makes him such a good Captain. “You look great.” He sounds so confident that Bucky unwinds himself, if only a little bit.

Steve smiles and Bucky melts.

\--

“Damn, you did that yourself?” Sam asks. There is an early dusk falling and a cold breeze coming through the open window. Bucky is leaning quietly against a kitchen counter. He nods once. Sam smiles. “You’re looking good, man.” He speaks easy. He speaks genuine. His voice calms Bucky down, even when Sam’s not trying.

“I’m sorry for shooting you out of the sky.” It spills out of his mouth like word soup. Bucky focuses on the leg of the center table.

Sam’s mouth twists, and he shrugs. “Water under the bridge,” he says, chuckling.

Steve pokes his head around the doorway. “Pizza guy’s here,” he says.

Sam nods. “On it.” He leaves them.

There is a moment of silence between the two remaining, a moment punctuated by the gentle flutter of the window curtains. “I think that you’re gonna like these movies, Buck,” Steve says, throwing a bag of popcorn into the microwave.

“Did you like them?”

Steve chews on his bottom lip, furrows his brow. “Well, they were okay. But Flash Gordon was always really your thing.”

Bucky nods. Out of everything that he could have possibly remembered, a fondness for Flash Gordon was one of the first things that reared its ugly head.

Speaking quieter now, Steve adds “And remember, if anything upsets you, just let us know.” There is something vaguely conspiratorial in his tone.

Bucky considers. “I think that you just don’t want to see these movies again.”

Steve balks. “No, Buck, that’s not it –“

Bucky cracks a wild smile. “No, it is! You _hated_ Flash Gordon,” he says, choking out a dull laugh.

“I didn’t hate it! It wasn’t my favorite, but the art was– “

Bucky, formerly static in his position against the counter, leans forward and stands straight up. He is possessed with the newfound energy that he gets when he remembers something he likes, paces. “Steve, quit bein’ so polite! You hated Flash Gordon. Why didn’t you tell me, I’ve been talking Flash Gordon trivia for two weeks!”

Quiet, Steve admits, “You seemed happy.” And then, he adds “Besides, I knew it would come to you eventually.” He flashes a devilish smile. Bucky snorts.

Sam enters with boxes of pizza piled high in his arms, mumbling something about super soldiers. Setting the boxes down, he asks “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”

Bucky leans back against in the counter, grips it with his right hand. He hides, like he has never been there at all.

“What did you think you heard?” Steve asks.

Sam laughs. “You didn’t like Star Wars?”

Steve shrugs, gets plates out from the cupboards. “It wasn’t my favorite.”

Sam furrows his brow. “How did you watch them?”

Steve retrieves the fully popped popcorn and shoots Sam a confused look. “In order?”

Sam leans against the wall. “In order like the old ones and then the new ones, or in order like ‘one, two, three, four, five, six’?”

Steve gathers napkins, organizes the pizza boxes out across the table. “One, two, three, four, five, six.”

Sam shakes his head. “Oh, no man, no.”

“Well, how are you supposed to watch them?”

“Machete Order!” Sam exclaims, grabbing a plate. “You are telling me that you were the last unspoiled man on Earth, and no one bothered to show the Star Wars movies to you in Machete order?”

“Machete Order?” Steve asks, dumping the popcorn into a ceramic bowl.

“It’s a better way of seeing the movies. When Lucas made the prequels, he screwed up a lot of shit. Machete Order fixes it. It gets rid of the some of the bad stuff. Makes the whole series more succinct.” Sam grabs a can of beer and his plate, and starts walking into the living room. “Plus, we don’t have to see Jar-Jar Binks.”

Quietly, after him, Steve says “I liked Jar-Jar Binks.” Steve follows Sam. Bucky follows Steve.

Sam takes the chair; Steve and Bucky take the couch. “You are gonna love this,” Sam says to Bucky, leaning toward him. Bucky nods. He likes Sam. Sam makes him feel normal, makes him feel like he’s just some punk somewhere. Sam’s smart. Steve says that Sam works at the VA. Steve likes Sam.

Bucky realizes he’s been staring at Sam. Sam has been pretending not to notice, but Bucky knows that he does. His body language is turned toward him, his manner is too stiff. Sam is on defense. Bucky cocks his head, turns his body in an almost feline manner before stopping. Get a hold of yourself. Lean back. Sit down. Bucky sinks into the couch cushion. Steve’s eyes are boring into him. He’s okay. He’s okay.

The score startles him, but he does not break. Wordlessly, Sam turns down the volume. Look at the screen. Stare at the screen. You are here. Don’t ruin this.

Bucky takes a deep breath. The title scrawl begins. Despite himself, he grins.

Sam cracks a wider grin. “Aw man,” he says again. “You are really gonna love this!”

Hours pass. The sun sinks fully into the ground. Cars whir past. They change discs. They watch silently, so silent that by the time that Sam puts _Attack of the Clones_ back in its case, he’s unsure if the others are even awake.

“Are you two still up?” Sam whispers, loud enough to catch the attention of any waking visitor but not to disturb a sleeping guest.

There is movement on the couch. Bucky, glassy-eyed in the dark, staring at him intently from his cushion makes a slight nod. Steve sleeps nearby. Inwardly, Sam cringes. He was hoping that tonight was going to be easy, and this complicates matters. “Do you want to keep watching?” he asks.

It takes a moment for Bucky to respond. He leans forward, slightly, enough to for his head to poke out of the gloom. Sheared and shaved, he really does look like the Commando that Sam grew up hearing about. It makes him nervous. It’s like talking to a ghost.

Dead silent, Bucky turns to look at Steve. His eyes linger, drooping in that half-dead expression they’ve had since they dragged him back from Europe. Sam listens to the pipes clanking. Bucky turns back to Sam and assesses him with one quick glance, then gives him the sassiest look that he’s ever seen. Sam raises his eyebrows. The expression is equal parts sarcasm and fondness, and there is something so human and alive in it that it catches Sam off-guard.

“So is that a yes or a no?” he asks.

“Yes. How many more?”

“Two.”

“Only two?”

“Well, there’s another, but it’s terrible.”

Bucky snorts. Sam laughs, he can’t help it. “It cannot be that bad.”

Sam puts the next disc in the player, returns to his seat. “Oh, it is that bad.”

Bucky shrugs. For a moment, Sam can see the suave, street-smart guy all of the documentaries he was forced to sit through in high school said he was. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Sam laughs again. “Alright, do you want to watch that one or finish the series first?”

“Series.”

“Alright,” Sam says. “Let’s get started.” He hits play. The score swells, and the opening scrawls fall across the screen. Sam moves to turn the volume down.

“Don’t,” Bucky says. His voice is short. It chills Sam to the bone. He stops. “Steve’s fine,” Bucky explains. The cadence in his voice sounds more natural, not forced. If Sam tries, he can hear the gentle undertone of an accent. “Kid can sleep through anything.”

“Alright,” Sam says. “You know him better than I do, but if he wakes up, and I’ve got Captain America mad at me, it’s on you.”

Bucky shushes him in reply. In a mock whisper, he says “Quiet! I’m trying to watch a movie here!”

But they talk. They talk throughout this movie, and the next, until the final credits are crawling across the screen and the sun is beginning to rise.

“Dude,” Sam says. “I have never seen someone get so into Star Wars before.”

Bucky furrows his brow. He is leaning closer to Sam than he is to Steve. He’s even taken off his sweater, revealing a well-worn black t-shirt and his metal arm (Sam thinks that’s gotta count for something). He narrows his eyes. “I think I like science-fiction.”

Sam laughs. “Hey man, I’m not gonna stop you. Never pegged you for a sci-fi nerd though.”

Bucky considers. “I don’t know what I am.”

Sam scratches his head, points at Bucky. “And don’t let anybody pigeon-hole you. But if you like Star Wars, you might like Star Trek.”

Bucky gives him a quizzical look. Sam leans forward.

“Okay, so Star Trek is a TV show that’s been on forever. I never got into it but my college roommate was a freak about it. It’s still pretty popular. It’s about a group of people who explore space. I think you might like it.”

Bucky nods. “Okay.” He pauses, looks past Sam and out of the window. “People don’t usually tell me things they think I might like,” he says.

Sam jumps up. “Hell man, if you’re looking for recommendations, I’m full of ‘em.”

Bucky follows Sam to the kitchen. “Like what?”

Sam laughs. “Well, something tells me that Steve’s never shown you the Troubleman soundtrack, so we’ll start there.”

Hours later, Steve stirs from the couch. Tucked under blankets, he shakes off sleeps and sits up. The living room is empty, save for an assortment of dirty plates and empty soda and beer cans. The TV is off. The sun is high, bright and clear.

On guard, Steve enters the kitchen. It, too, is empty. There is a half-empty pot of coffee made. The window is wide open, blowing a steady stream of brisk morning air throughout the apartment. There is conversation outside. Steve creeps closer.

“Steve!” he hears Sam call from outside. Steve leans forward, pokes his head out. Cozy on the fire escape, clutching mugs of coffee in their hands, Sam and Bucky are perched in sweaters and pajamas. Bucky isn’t smiling, but his demeanor is relaxed and his eyes are bright. Sam is grinning. There is a near empty carton of donuts between them.

“You guys got donuts?” Steve asks because it is the only thing he can think of.

\--

Natasha is different.

She dances around the edges of his memory like mist, never fully forming enough for him to get a tangible hold on her. She looks like a ghost to him, at times, and he can catch glimpses of her from another time (younger, or with different hair, or weeping or crying or fighting) if he tries hard enough, if the light hits her right, if he blinks too quickly.

“I knew her,” Bucky mumbles a few days before he cuts his hair. He is sitting on the edge of the sofa, crouched like a gargoyle and buried under layers of clothing.

“Knew who?” Steve asks. He is reading messages on a secure network. Nick Fury is mad at him. Nicky Fury wants to know why he is ‘keeping the world’s deadliest assassin as a god damn household pet.’

“Natasha,” Bucky answers. His eyes are far away.

Steve half turns to face him. He is mentally composing a response to Nick Fury. “She told me once that you two had crossed paths before.”

“What did she say?” Bucky asks, sliding down from the edge of the couch to a cushion. He is folded in on himself. Mid-morning light is filtered through the apartment, but it’s rays manage to miss him completely.

Steve gives him an apprehensive look. Bucky steels himself. “Just tell me,” he says, gives Steve a wry and fake half-smile to ease him.

Steve turns to face him completely, Nick Fury forgotten for now. “She said that she had gone toe to toe with the Winter Soldier on a mission in Odessa.”

“What happened?” Bucky asks, but he has a feeling that he already knows the answer.

“She was protecting a diplomat that you were ordered to kill. The Winter Soldier shot him.”

Bucky wants to ask him to explain, but he can see it in his head vividly. Odessa stretched before him, every nook and cranny of the city that they programmed into his head. Key information about the target. Mission objectives. Making the shot through the red-head, an enemy operative, _Чёрная вдова_. But even then, she is mist at the edge of his memory.

“Bucky?” Steve calls. He is beside him. They are on the couch. Steve’s body language is comforting and friendly, but Bucky knows that he’s calculating: distance to door, distance to shield, minimizing casualties. It makes him want to cry. “Bucky?” Steve repeats, louder.

Bucky looks up. His lip twitches. “Yeah, Stevie?” he asks. His voice cracks. Dull, throbbing panic. He doesn’t remember Steve sitting down next to him.

Steve takes a deep breath. “Are you alright?” Steve curses his uselessness, the knowledge that he is making this up as he goes hanging heavy on his heart.

“Yeah,” Bucky says weakly. It’s only partially a lie, and he wants to say more, another statement to help put Steve’s mind at ease. It’s what he would have done before, in the past, in Brooklyn. But he can’t bring himself to push more words out of his mouth, to make more noise.

He spends the rest of the day on the couch, buried under blankets with the oldies station on full blast in the kitchen. The music carries into the living room, and occasionally he hears Steve singing along from his position at the adjacent desk.

Natasha drops in on them a few days after Sam’s visit. Bucky is still in an unusually good mood, and there is a single half-eaten donut left lonely in its box on the kitchen counter. Bucky is staring at it from the kitchen table, arms wrapped around his body. In the room over, Steve and Natasha circle each other.

“Fury’s _appeased_. You’re lucky that he’s too busy cleaning up all of SHIELD’s dirty secrets to take a more active interest,” she says. Her voice is even.

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve replies.

She gives him a glance. “There are others. HYDRA’s being taken care of, but there are still active units. Sleeper cells. Other intelligence agencies are asking questions. Foreign governments. A little birdie told me that Putin’s been putting pressure on the UN to brand your friend a war criminal.”

Steve balks. “That’s ridiculous! They have access to the files, they know what HYDRA did to him –“

“Steve, it doesn’t matter. They’re going to keep pushing this until –“

“Natasha, what am I supposed to do?”

She stops. Bucky wraps his arms around his body tighter. Outside, the leaves are changing colors.

She starts again. “You need Fury on your side. Convince him that Barnes is an investment worth making. Start with Stark and Banner. Get them on your side; Fury won’t be happy, but he’ll be likely to follow. Worst case scenario, you’d have five out of the six Avengers on board. All six if you can get a hold of Thor. Public backs the Avengers. Avengers back Barnes. Public backs Barnes.”

Bucky can hear Steve shift his weight.

“I’ve already had Barnes’ translated files uploaded. I’m working on getting them circulated online. He’s a war hero. It’s tragic. People will rally around him. The file is already circulating on Russian image boards. Given their reactions, you have a real chance at keeping him safe.” Her voice is low.

Bucky swallows hard. He feels sick, but there’s something that’s vaguely like hope beneath it. He buries his head in hands, accidentally pushes the table forward an inch. It scrapes against the floor.

Natasha and Steve peer in through the doorway, Steve concerned and Natasha curious.

“Barnes,” she says. He doesn’t say anything. “You’ve changed your hair,” she continues.

He moves his hands, glances to look at her. She is as always, so familiar yet impossible to place. “I’m sorry I shot you in the stomach,” he tells her, the words falling out of his mouth.

She gives him a half-smile, and her eyes imply a genuine warmness. “I’ve done worse things to you,” she replies. The look he gives her sells himself, and she continues with “Don’t worry. You’ll remember me.”

“Thank you, Natalia,” Bucky says. The name sounds natural, and it rolls off his tongue like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She gives him in the widest smile he’s ever seen from her before turning to a very uncomfortable looking Steve.

“Stark. Banner.” She pokes him gently in the chest before leaving as quickly as she came.

Silence descends on the apartment. “What did she say to you?” Steve asks, quietly.

Bucky gives him _that_ look, the one that’s equal parts sarcasm and fondness. “You were right there,” he answers. He feels calmer now, more confident. Something has been assuaged for the time being. He leans back in his chair, lets his arms drop.

Steve furrows his brow. “Bucky, you were speaking in Russian.”

Bucky bites his lip. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and then he laughs. It’s gentle, genuine, and it freaks Bucky out. Evidence of the worst of him laid out bare, and he didn’t even notice. His brain is churning the words for him, self-loathing bile threatening to drip down the back of his throat and leave him a disgusting heap on the floor, and Steve is laughing.

“Bucky, are you gonna finish that donut?” Steve asks. Bucky freezes. The bile stops there, it never reaches his heart or his lungs.

“Probably,” he answers honestly.

“Alright, because you have about five seconds to get to it before I eat it.” They both grin.

Bucky gets the donut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Machete Order](http://www.nomachetejuggling.com/2011/11/11/the-star-wars-saga-suggested-viewing-order/) is real, and it is beautiful.


	10. i met you up upon a stage

**4chan, 23:22, Halloween Night**

“Finished translating some files from SHIELD leak. This shit was really buried, WWII-era Russian. Pain in the ass, hope you’re happy.” Attached is a link to a download of an English translation of the Winter Soldier’s HYDRA file, including torture techniques, photographs, and in-depth mission reports.

Selected comments: “holy shit!”, “james barnes like fucking bucky bear bucky bear is the winter soldier”, “[attached image of man’s implied orgasm face] >mfw conspiracy theorist”, “This is legit????”

**Reddit, 8:52, November 1** **st**

Second-rated post in /r/all:

“SHIELD files reveal identity of ‘Winter Soldier’ to be former Howling Commando, James B Barnes GRAPHIC NSFW” Description includes link to a download of an English translation of the Winter Soldier’s HYDRA file, including torture techniques, photographs, and in-depth mission reports.

Top-rated comments:

“Holy fucking shit. Do you guys realize what this means? This file looks legit, you can find it if you search for it’s ID number on the SHIELD leak db. HYDRA took a beloved war hero, brainwashed and tortured him. The guy on the Potomac was fucking Bucky Barnes, Steve Roger’s _best friend_. Did he know? He had to know. I don’t’ know if anybody else paid attention in high school, but Bucky and Steve were close. Holy shit. And look at the mission reports, I’ve got to go to work but just scrolling through them I caught at least one Kennedy, countless it looks like European politicians? I thought I caught a Stark. This is going to change the way that we look at the history of the 20th century.”

> “You guys, we know who killed Kennedy.” (user received gold for this post)

“Why didn’t this get out before? If this is legit, why haven’t any major news outlets picked up on it?”

> “Alright, kid, sit down because I am sick of explaining this every time some new SHIELD intel drops. Black Widow released a TON of files back in April. There are literally millions of files, and some are more important than others. For months, people have been digging through the files and trying to separate the important files from the unimportant files. When an important file gets found, it hits the news media (but usually the internet at large first). There are thousands of important files, and their level of importance is usually subjective.
> 
> It does not surprise me at all that this took so long to come out. Look at what the translator was working with for the most part. Sloppy Russian, poor quality scans, and it looks like they had to piece this collection together themselves. The Winter Soldier was a top security level program, it was probably extremely hard to get to some of these reports. Everything’s out there, but there are still varying levels of encryption on the documents.
> 
> If you’re interested in helping out, the folks over at the SHIELD Leak Database would love an extra hand. They’re an incredible group of people who are dedicated to making sure that files  
>  like this get out.” (user received 2x gold for this post)

“This is heart-breaking. Is he still out there? He was never confirmed dead, what if he remembers? Holy hell.”

        “Ten bucks says Captain America has him. He’s been weirdly silent about this whole thing. I  
         know that if I were him I would be hell-bent on trying to get my buddy back.”

>           “Cap hasn’t been silent. He did a series of press conferences in April.”  

                           “Yeah, in April. He hasn’t said anything for months.”

**Tumblr, 14:36, November 1st**

“BREAKING NEWS!! New SHIELD Intel Reveals Identity of the Winter Soldier, TONS of Newly Translated Files!!! [tw: torture, abuse]” Attached is a link to a download of an English translation of the Winter Soldier’s HYDRA file, including torture techniques, photographs, and in-depth mission reports. Beneath the link, there is a message from the original poster that says “This might be one of the MOST important of the leaked SHIELD files, please reblog this and get the word out.” There are 18,546 notes.

Selected comments “signal boost the FUCK out of this”, “IMPORTANT! those trigger warnings are not nearly as descriptive enough, these files are extremely graphic. PLEASE VIEW AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!”, “u guys if this file is legit then wow”, “i’m pretty sure its legit, it checks out on the sldb”

**Various headlines, mid-afternoon, November 1 st**

“NEW SHIELD INTEL REVEALS IDENTITY OF WINTER SOLDIER”

“Newly translated SHIELD files reveal identity of Winter Soldier to be American WWII hero”

“James Buchanan Barnes: Howling Commando or Winter Soldier?”

**Reddit, 20:57, November 1 st**

“Winter Soldier identity confirmed by Black Widow” Attached is a link to a news article detailing the events of a late-afternoon press conference.

Top-rated comments:

“[quotation from the article: ‘Barnes was not acting out of his own free will.’] Somehow, despite all odds, HYDRA has proved itself AGAIN to be more evil than originally thought. EDIT: Thanks for the gold!” (user received gold for this post)

“There’s a good chance, given the events of the Potomac and the time in between the Soldier’s last visit with HYDRA (assuming the secure location that Romanov mentions he is being kept at isn’t continuing the torture), that he either has or is starting to remember parts of his life beforehand.”

> “I think I’m having feels.”
> 
> “I will single-handedly pay for this guy’s therapy.”

“Is no one else freaking out about the other information leaked in the file? We have information on dozens of assassinations from post-WWII up to last year. Hell, we know who killed BOTH Kennedys.”

> “Could he even be held accountable for it?”  
>   
>              “Dude, read the fucking file. The Soldier was basically a zombie."

**Twitter, 21:32, November 1 st**

#commandoorsoldier is trending.

**Phone call, Bruce Banner to Steven Rogers, 1:43, November 2 nd**

“Hey, Steve. I’m sorry about the time, I know it’s late. Natasha told me to call you, and she seemed pretty adamant. I read the file. Well, parts of the file. He’s with you, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He leans back into the couch cushions. There’s an open laptop beside him, and he’s watching twitter finally start to slow down.

“How is he – you know.” Steve knows. Bucky is in the recliner, wrapped in blankets and staring at a muted TV screen. There’s an infomercial on.

“He’s doing alright,” Steve says. Bucky turns, glassy-eyed toward him. Steve offers a smile. Bucky curls himself further into the blankets, leans in Steve’s direction. Bucky gives him a warm look, and then closes his eyes. “Yes, he’s – he’s okay.”


	11. our love in a reflective age

When Bucky wakes up the apartment is illuminated with golden light, and he can smell eggs cooking in the kitchen. He stands on unsteady feet, his legs sore from his position on the recliner. Steve is opening and closing cupboards.

“Did I sleep the whole night?” he asks when he enters. He feels unusually alert.

“Yeah, and you snored. Bucky, I could hear you from the bedroom.” Steve flips the eggs. There is sweat slick on his skin, denoting a morning run. Bucky furrows his brow, stands still and steady with his right hand on a kitchen chair. Steve raises an eyebrow, keeps cooking. “Hey, Buck, I was wondering if you wanted to do something today.”

“Do what?” he asks.

Steve rolls his shoulders, drops the eggs onto two paper plates. “I don’t know. Maybe catch a show, go out to lunch. Just walk around.”

Bucky knows where this is coming from; he can remember the basics of a routine from before: in Brooklyn he was always on the move, always had a plan. He knew who to meet, where to go, what to do. He itched if he was trapped indoors.

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” he asks. So far, Steve’s apartment has been fine for him.

“Why not? You’re doing great. It’s a beautiful day.” Steve pauses, turns to face him. “But if you’re not comfortable with it you don’t have to say yes.”

Bucky considers. “I should take a shower,” he says.

They leave the apartment an hour later, sunglasses obscuring both their faces and a hat for Steve just in case. There is a chill in the air, but the sun is warm. They stay in each other’s orbit, Bucky closer to Steve. The day is kind to them. There is familiarity here; Bucky can almost trace it with his fingers. Things look different, but beneath they are the same. Steve looks different, but beneath he is the same. Bucky is a variation on the theme. The thought make his right hand freeze up, makes his body go stiff. Steve says his name, presses a gentle hand to his back. They continue on.

The sun dips, and they find themselves on the fire escape outside of Steve’s apartment. The sky is painted like a watercolor, dull yellows and pinks. Bucky’s lips are red, and he is leaning against the brick of the building. It’s like being a kid again, by the docks or on the porch. Steve imagines his mother in the 21st century, and the thought makes him smile. Steve imagines Winifred Barnes in the 21st century, and it leaves him sad.

They drink root beer out of glass bottles. Steve entertains the notion that he might have died at some point, gone to heaven.

“Hey, you never told me what happened when you broke it off with Ruth Mathers,” Steve says. His eyes are lazy. His breathing is easy.

Bucky nods. He remembers Ruth Mathers.

He remembers Ruth Mathers calling him a “god damn cad” and telling him to get the hell out of her sight. She picks up the half-empty coke bottle that she’s been nursing, and gives it a decent toss for good measure. Her aim is terrible, and Bucky leaves unscathed, but the knowledge that she would have nailed him if she could upsets him more than he wants to admit.

He liked Ruth, he did. She was sassy, and had a smart mouth but she knew when to be a lady. He met her at a dance hall under fairy lights. She looked soft under the glow, and she blinked slow like a movie actress. She swiveled her hips, danced well, and made him cry laughing three times in the matter of two hours. He could imagine shooting the breeze with her, or taking her out dancing if she’d like.

When the night began to dim, he walked her home to a shitty apartment a few blocks away from his own. They talked the whole way there, clicked like they were made for each other. _Steve’s gonna love her,_ he thought. And then she kissed him under the stars, and asked if they could see each other again.

There were girls for Bucky, always girls for Bucky. He charmed them, took them dancing. He fingerfucked them in doorways, covered their mouth with his when they came, and they would run off and tell their friends who would tell their friends until Bucky Barnes’ reputation became a thing of legend. “What can I say, Steve, I’m a ladies man,” he would drawl, and Steve would roll his eyes, and Bucky would try to not think about how Steve might feel inside of him, or in a doorway somewhere fucking himself on Bucky’s fingers.

Maybe this is it, he thought. Maybe she’s the one. She had to be the one. There had to be a girl out there for him. She was attractive he knew, she had all the right parts at the right size in the right places. Other guys looked her up and down and approved. She didn’t make his mouth run dry like Ricky Anderson from high school did, and she didn’t make his dick twitch like Jimmy Stewart at the movies did, and she didn’t take his breath away like Steve did, but they got along and she was pretty and god dammit, he wasn’t a queer.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll see you around some time.” She blushed, but he couldn’t tell in the light. They saw each other around. He fingerfucked her in the apartment one afternoon that Steve was out. They danced all night. She sucked him off in some back alley way. They got ice cream and laughed like children. He fucked her on her bed. She brought baked goods over to his place.

“Steve, she made apple cake!” he said with a mouth full of the stuff. Steve nodded, not looking up from his sketchbook. “Steve, it’s your favorite!” he taunted. Steve gave him a look that said ‘I am too nice to ask you to leave me alone but I really need to focus on this’ and Bucky got the hint.

“Your friend, Steve –“ Ruth began as they sat next to each other on the Ferris wheel one lazy early autumn evening.

“Aw, yeah, Steve’s great,” Bucky said with an easy smile.

Ruth nodded. “He’s certainly a nice guy, that’s for sure, but he’s kind of –“

“Kind of what?” Bucky cut her off, his manner suddenly cold.

Ruth laughed nervously. “Aw, Bucky, it’s nothing.”

Bucky laughed nervously back. “Nah, don’t let me stop you. Say what you had to say.”

Ruth bit her lip. “Well,” she said, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “He’s never really had a girl, has he?”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, right? I ain’t sure why either. Dames in this city, Ruth, I’m telling ya.”

“Well,” Ruth repeated, shifting uncomfortably. “Have you ever thought that, maybe, he wasn’t interested in girls?”

Bucky’s heart froze in his chest. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe, he’s, you know, like a fairy or something?”

“Ruth,” he said, mouth working separate from his body, “That’s a nasty god damn thing to say.”

She furrowed her brow. “Buck, I didn’t mean anything by it!”

“Yeah, and you better not say anything like it again. He ain’t a fairy, and he’s got enough reasons for people to pick on him. You start spreading a rumor that he’s a fag, you write his death sentence,” he says. They cut the date short.

“You’re home early,” Steve says. He’s sketching. “Everything go okay?”

“Yeah, everything went swell,” Bucky lies. He grabs a drink and sits on the sofa. It creaks beneath his weight.

“Then why’d the date end early?” Steve asks, absent-mindedly.

Bucky waves his hand. “She had things to do. What are you drawing?”

“Guy I met today. Bucky, you are not gonna believe what happened,” Steve begins, eyes lit up. He’s beautiful. He’s so god damn beautiful. The curve of his jaw, the length of his cheek bones. He’s like a god damn painting. He turns to face Bucky, still speaking. He’s telling a story about some grocer. His hands are covered in dark pigment, mark of the artist. His fingers are long, delicate. They’re precise. Bucky wants them in his mouth, wants to run his lips along the pale skin of his friend’s stomach, follow the contours of his ribcage.

“Bucky, are you alright?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “Just tired’s all. Finish your story; I want to know what happened with the grocer’s wife.”

That night, he dreams of Ruth in a wedding dress. It’s the thing to do, he knows it is. He wakes up with Steve curled against his chest. It’s getting colder already. 1941 is coming to a close. There is a war on in Europe. The Japanese are going to bomb Pearl Harbor. Ruth Mathers dies in 1997. Bucky and Steve aren’t allowed to die. They curl closer to each other.

There’s a moment, the morning after Steve stays the first night that Bucky realizes he’s in love with him. Steve’s always been there, from the first moment. Phenomenal. Beautiful and phenomenal, more than he could possibly ever ask for. His best friend, the only guy (besides his mom) who ever really gave an actual shit about him. Sitting in the sunlight, Bucky falls in love. It hits him hard, knocks the wind out of him. He whimpers.

Bucky catches Steve’s face fall the night that he reveals his intentions toward Ruth Mathers. It pierces his heart like a bullet. He’s torn when he leaves, in a panic. Is there a chance? he asks himself. Part of him snarls. There is no chance, not if he wants to keep Steve alive. Stupid fucking Steve, no sense of survival. He downs glasses like his father. He’s never been drunk before, not really. He doesn’t even remember coming home, just wakes up alone in bed. He trades places with Steve, prays to a God his mother believed in that he didn’t say anything stupid while he was drunk, and spends a year and a half dancing around (and on one memorable occasion, with) his best friend.

Steve’s mother knew. She must have, on her death bed. “Watch out for him,” she had said. There was something knowing in her gaze. She was a grey, human skeleton. She died in her sleep.

Bucky’s mother knew. She must have known, Bucky thinks. There was no way that she could have avoided it.

Winifred Barnes had a sister named Beatrice who married an old, wealthy land-owner. He passed away on her 21st birthday. He left her money, and she spent it on a luxurious townhouse in Chicago where she lived with her best friend, a woman named Jane. Beatrice sent Bucky’s brothers and sisters away, but passed over him. She was Winifred Barnes’ lifeline. She was the bane of George Barnes’ existence. He called her ‘the dyke’ and made vulgar jokes.

“I think that I would kiss a boy,” Bucky had said when he was four, before he knew better. Winifred slapped him, made him stand with a bar of soap in his mouth for an hour. It wasn’t for her, and it wasn’t for him.

“Don’t you ever say anything like that to your father,” she whispered to him. He nodded. There was a body underneath the frozen Earth in Michigan because of his father, the corpse of a boy who made a pass at the wrong Barnes. Bucky would think of him when he looked at Ricky Anderson in high school. Bucky would imagine Steve six feet under, and tell himself to knock it off. He would close his eyes and jack off to girls. He would fingerfuck them in doorways.

He lost his virginity to a sad, willow-y girl named Amelia. She led him by hand up to her family’s apartment. They were alone. She kissed him twice, and laid down. “Alright,” she had said. “You can do it.” He did it. She didn’t move. Afterwards, she told him to leave. He broke down crying on the stairs leading out of the building. He was fifteen, and he told Steve a completely different story. He made it up. Steve raised his eyebrows, impressed. Bucky avoided the street Amelia lived on for months.

The war wasn’t the first time that he had kissed a boy. Historians would say that he grew up in a gay neighborhood, and they’d be right. There were bars, and drag queens, and boys looking for a quick fuck. Bucky found one. They kissed, feverish and heavy with want for minutes before Bucky broke it away. “Aw, come on,” the boy had said, but he wasn’t a boy, he was years old than Bucky. Bucky ran, and he kept running for years.

Bucky stops running, remembers a mantra.

\--

He thinks, “There’s a man who came and got me. I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve came and got me. I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve came and got me. I’m gonna be with Steve because I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve came and got me. And we went home. Nobody else matters, I’m gonna be with Steve because I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve came and got me. And we went home. The war is over, and nobody else matters, I’m gonna be with Steve because I love him.”

He thinks, “Steve came and got me. And we went home to Brooklyn, and his apartment. The war is over, and nobody else matters, I’m gonna be with Steve because I love him.”

\--

He loved Steve, on one hand, strictly objectively. It was fact. It swirled up from the depths of his memory somewhere in Europe.

He _loved_ Steve, on the other hand, in a way that knocked the wind out of him. It, too, was fact. It swirled up from the depths as he paced Steve’s apartment. But that was wrong, somehow. And so he said “I’m not him. I am not your friend. That is not me. I do not know him. I am sorry. It is apparent that you cared about him very much.” And he ran again.

Steve came and got him. And they went home, now that the war is over. Nobody else matters now.

“Hey, you never told me what happened when you broke it off with Ruth Mathers,” Steve says. His eyes are lazy. His breathing is easy.

Bucky nods. He remembers Ruth Mathers. “It’s not a very good story,” he replies. “I don’t remember parts of it.” Steve gives him a sympathetic, but non-accusatory look. It is more of a statement than anything. Bucky swallows. “I realized I was in love with someone else,” he states, matter of fact.

Steve raises his eyebrows. There is a moment of silence between them. Steve looks beautiful. The curve of his jaw, the length of his cheek bones. He’s like a god damn painting. Bucky wants to kiss him.

But he doesn’t, he plays with the cool glass of his root beer bottle. Steve doesn’t push it. They keep talking. Steve tells him about a disastrous post-New York Avengers fundraiser; back when Fury was still trying to push the initiative as an actual team. Bucky nods through most of it but gives a good, clear laugh when Steve gets to the part about the nuns. Bucky tells him about training camp prank that he and a group of guys had pulled before they even set foot on European soil. Steve’s heard it before, but it doesn’t matter because Bucky’s telling it again, and it’s new to Bucky and hell, it’s still just as hilarious.

They talk until the sun sets, and Steve begins to worry that they’ll disturb any neighbors trying to get some rest.

“We should head inside,” he says, and he stands. Bucky follows in suit. They are close to each other. Bucky’s breath hitches.

“Wait,” he says. Steve looks up.

It’s quick and shy. Bucky presses his lips to Steve’s, and then pulls away. Steve stands with his mouth open. There is no reaction. Bucky seizes.

“Sorry – “ he begins, winding into himself. This is bad, he fucked up bad, he did something very bad.

“Hey, hey,” Steve says. “Bucky.” He places a gentle hand on Bucky’s right shoulder. “Bucky, it’s okay,” he says. Bucky can’t read his expression. Steve strokes his arm, moves up to his neck and then his cheek. He’s exploratory, yet timid.

“This is new,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, it is.” Steve gives him a sad smile.

“He wanted to do this for a long time,” Bucky continues. His voice is monotone, on the rising edge of hysterical.

“You did?” Steve asks sadly. He keeps stroking Bucky’s jawline. They sway together.

“He was in love with you,” Bucky explains. His voice cracks. Steve’s heart breaks.

“You were?” Bucky nods. There are tears in his eyes. His lip trembles. Steve gives a ragged sigh.

A cold wind blows. “I have to go,” Bucky says. He is shaking. He climbs back inside. Steve follows. He wants to keep following, but he allows Bucky space. He cleans up the kitchen. He pours the rest of his root beer down the drain.

He finds Bucky in bed. He crawls in next to him. They curl around each other. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says. His eyes are weepy, and he sniffles.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Steve replies. Bucky frowns involuntarily, buries his head in Steve’s shoulder. Steve feels lips on his collar blade, the soft scratch of stubble. Bucky trails his neck. They meet at the lips. Steve kisses back, presses into Bucky’s mouth and runs a hand through Bucky’s hair. Bucky moans.

They lay and kiss for hours, fall asleep, and then wake up and kiss some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	12. the phones are lighting up

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispers. Bucky murmurs, lazy and half-asleep. “I’m going to go for a run,” he continues. “Are you alright here?” Bucky shushes him, grabs Steve’s forfeited pillow and rolls over. Steve takes it as a yes.

Steve moves methodic. He makes coffee. He changes his clothing. He stretches. He goes for a long run. The neighborhood is still asleep. Dawn is coming later and later every day. Steve has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Never, never in a million years could he have imagined this.

He runs. He has a working set of lungs, a body that doesn’t hate him, and he can kiss Bucky Barnes.

There were girls for Steve, but they weren’t his. He could watch them, wonder. They were beautiful, soft, and they smelled nice. Their smiles made his heart melt. He wanted to dance with them like Bucky did. He dreamed of kissing them in doorways. He dreamed of taking a girl home, keeping her safe and warm, loving her. There were a lot of girls for Steve: the ones at the dance hall, the one who left for Florida, the blonde USO girl who didn’t go out of her way to laugh at his jokes, Peggy -

There were boys for Steve, but they weren’t his. He could watch them, wonder. They were beautiful, hard lines and angles, and the flash of their teeth made his heart melt. He wanted to get close to them, feel them move under his hands. He dreamed of kissing them in doorways, being held in their arms. But there was only one boy for Steve, really, and he knew that they could never have each other.

To start with, he was convinced Bucky was the straightest guy he knew. He always had a girl on his arm, usually two. He lost his virginity to Amelia Wilkes. He fingerfucked girls in doorways. He jacked off to nudie magazines. He dragged Steve to every Marlene Dietrich picture that they had access to. He wanted to marry Ruth Mathers.

Steve would look at him on the rooftop in the summer of 1942 or in the window with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and wonder. Wonder what it would be like to get closer, touch him in all of the places that made him moan, places that not even the girls at the dance halls got to see. Break his exterior; wind his hand in Bucky’s dark hair, make him feel _good_. Steve would turn away.

“Steve, you alright?” Bucky asked. The sun was setting behind him. They were on the roof in 1942.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Steve said. “Tired tonight.” He ran a hand through his own hair.

Bucky nodded, concerned. “Do you wanna go back down, or?”

Steve shook his head. “Nah, Buck, I’m fine.”

\--

The apartment is quiet when Steve returns. He takes a quick shower, changes into comfortable clothing, and meets Bucky in the kitchen.

“Hey, Bucky,” he says. “How’d you sleep?”

Bucky blinks. His hair is a mess, and he has a decent collection of stubble. “All night,” he says. “Except for the kissing.” His voice is even, like he’s delivering a mission report. He almost sounds like Natasha. Steve raises an eyebrow and looks at him, only to receive a devious half-smile.

“Coffee?” Steve asks.

“Coffee,” Bucky repeats. Steve pours him a glass, slides it across the table. Bucky catches it with his right hand. He’s been using it more than the other, lately, Steve realizes dully. He takes a seat adjacent to Bucky.

“What are you doing today?” he asks. Steve feels oddly nervous. He’s stalling.

“There is a Judge Judy marathon on,” Bucky replies, looking down at his coffee. He isn’t making eye contact. “I like her attitude,” he explains.

Steve smiles. “Yeah, she’s definitely quite the lady.” There is a moment of awkward silence between them.

“Can we – can we do that again sometime?” Bucky asks. Steve could laugh if he didn’t want to cry. Bucky was always so smooth with romantic relationships. If anything it should have been Steve posing the question.

“Yeah, Buck, I would like that.”

There is a knock on the door. It puts them both on edge. Steve stands; Bucky stays seated clutching his mug with his right hand. He stares at the dark liquid in the cup. Steve opens the door. One visitor, heavy boots, female voice. Friendly. Natasha. Natalia.

“Доброе утро,” she says to him. He gives a gruff nod. She allows a half-smile, turns to Steve. “I bring news.” She lifts a Dunkin’ Donuts bag. “And donuts.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Good or bad?”

She snorts. “I assume you’re referring the news.” She sets the bag on the table. “Both, depending on your perspective. The internet is in your back pocket. The files hit Friday night. Have you been watching?”

“I’m more tech-savvy than you think,” Steve says.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “No, you’re more tech-savvy than Stark thinks. I know exactly how tech-savvy you are. It’s time to act, Steve. This is the best opportunity that we’re going to get.”

“Natasha –“ he begins.

“Fury wants to see you,” she cuts him off. “And him.”

Steve huffs. “If Fury wants to see us so badly, why hasn’t he contacted us himself?”

“He doesn’t know he wants to see you yet. Take the first step, Steve. Contact him. Show of good faith.”

Steve looks her up, down. “Doesn’t sound like something you’d do.”

She smiles. “No,” she says. “But it sounds like something you’d do.”

Steve furrows his brow. He speaks quietly, quickly. “Natasha, I don’t know if –“

“Don’t know if what?” Bucky asks. His voice is loud, clear. He leans back, opens himself up to them. They look. “Don’t know if I’m ready?”

Steve breaks. “Buck-“

“Steve,” he says. His voice is harsh. “I can talk to a couple of goons in suits if I have to, prove I’m not gonna blow anybody up.” Natasha smirks.

Steve’s nostrils flare. “Bucky, I can’t promise I know what they’re going to do to you.” His voice is commanding, authoritarian.

It only serves to egg Bucky on. “Well, whatever it is, Steve, I can promise you that I’ve handled worse.”

Steve swallows hard, looks at the ground. There is a moment of silence. “Bucky, I don’t want to risk losing you again.”

“Steve,” he says. He grips his coffee cup so tight that his knuckles are white. “There is no one who is going to take me away from you.”

Silence. The room is heavy. A car whirs past.

“Barnes,” Natasha says. “I released your file to the Internet. Do you understand what that means?”

Bucky nods. “Anybody can read it.”

Natasha nods. “And read it they have. People like you, Barnes. You’re a hero.” Bucky grimaces. “They grew up learning about you in history class. They’ve watched movies about you. You’re in the national conscience. People care. And they’ve read your file. And they’re mad, Barnes. HYDRA hurt someone that they care about. You’re a tragedy. They can rally behind it. They want revenge, for your sake. They want to make sure that you’re okay.”

“They’re _stupid_ ,” Bucky says. “If they’ve read my file, they know what I did.”

“They don’t care,” Natasha replies. “It wasn’t you.”

Bucky laughs, it’s clear and dry. “Then they’re even stupider than I thought. Natalia,” he says. His voice is hard, has an edge to it. “I remember doing them. Not all of them. But enough.”

Natasha crosses her arms. “Were they your actions? Did you want to be the Soldier? Did you choose your targets?” Bucky doesn’t reply. He looks down, swallows hard, trembles.

“Then it wasn’t you,” she says. Quieter, she adds, “After Fury, the next step is going public. They love you, Barnes, and that will keep you safe.” She looks at Steve. “It will keep you together.”

Bucky steels himself. He glances at Steve. “I’ll see Fury.” Natasha nods, looks at Steve.

“What he said,” Steve murmurs, sounding small.

“Excellent,” Natasha says. “Let’s get started.”


	13. taking no chances

**Tumblr, 14:37, November 3 rd**

“James Barnes, The Winter Soldier, and Accountability (tws ahoy!)” Underneath the title is the introduction of a small essay, “We’ve all been hearing about the newest batch of leaked SHIELD intel. It’s been all over my dashboard these past couple of days, and I’ve been seeing a lot of misinformation. I would like to use this post to clear some things up. To begin, I would like to start with linking to the file itself.” Attached is a link to the file. “Please be warned that it is graphic, a full list of the trigger warnings in the file can be found here.” Attached is a link to a tumblr post dated November 2nd, a compilation of trigger warnings related to the file. “Read at your own risk, but _please_ read it before spreading around bullshit.”

“The top three most important things that this file offers us is a) an identity to the ‘Winter Soldier’, the assailant who attacked DC this past April, b) startling evidence that the Winter Soldier was NOT acting on his own volition but was instead being effectively mind-controlled (for real, keep reading because I’ll get into the scientific specifics of what exactly they did to him – this is the part that the tw kicks in for) and c) mission reports that indicate that the Winter Soldier had a hand in dozens of assassinations from 1947 onward – how is this possible? Keep reading, because I’ll get to that horrific truth nugget too.”

The rest of the post is hidden under a read more. It has 48,679 notes.

Selected comment: “This is one of the best posts written on the subject. All of my followers, PLEASE READ THIS!!!”

**Various news headlines, November 3 rd and 4th**

“An idiot’s guide to the leaked Winter Soldier files”

“What the Winter Soldier Files Mean for the History of the 20th Century”

“Public support for James Barnes grows”

**Reddit, 8:44, November 4 th**

Top-rated post in /r/AskHistorians, second-rated post in /r/all:

“[AMA] We are scholars specializing in the history of the 20th century – ask us anything about the Winter Soldier missions!” Below is a brief introduction of each scholar, among them various Ph.Ds, Ivy League graduates and noted experts. The post is quickly gaining traction.

**4chan, 12:52, November 4 th**

“[image post of Howard Stark’s head photoshopped over Ned Stark from Game of Thrones’ body, the Winter Soldier is photoshopped in the background. In bold letters, “WINTER IS COMING” written on bottom]” Second post is a direct continuation, famous photograph of the Stark’s twisted vehicle taken only minutes after the car accident that took his life, and the life of his wife.

Selected comments: “omg”, “dude u r gonna get fuckin slaughtered by iron man”

\--

Steve is nervous, so nervous that his heart flutters in his chest. He half-expects his hands to get clammy, like they used to, but they haven’t done that since 1943. Every inch of his body is heavy with apprehension. He walks straight, walks tall. Forces his stride to be easy. He doesn’t want to tip anybody off.

Fury is waiting for him and him alone. Bucky was led away, flanked by Natasha and a team of armored guards, almost as soon as they entered the building.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he had asked, stepping in front of Bucky.

“Steve,” Natasha had said evenly. She placed a firm hand on his arm. Bucky gave a sad, quiet nod. He had shaved for this, trimmed his hair. They were separated.

Fury is waiting in a small, plain room. The walls are tan, and there is a long conference table in the center. One end of the table is cluttered by technology, screens and keyboards looking bizarrely modern for the beige nightmare that they exist in. The building is older; if Steve had to guess anywhere from 1970 onward would be a safe bet. It smells like decaying wood and molded carpeting, masked by some intern’s liberal use of scented air-freshener. It had been in decline for longer than it had been used, abandoned and returned to because it was all that remained.

Fury looks out of place in it. He is standing at the technology of the conference table in parade pose. He is angry.

Steve is angry, too. “Where did you take him?” is the first thing out of his mouth.

Fury laughs. “Just about what I expected from you, Cap,” he says. Steve holds his own. Fury continues. “Rogers, I don’t have a problem with you. In fact, I hoped that we could have a nice little chat. Something tells me that we aren’t going to be able to have that little chat until I prove to you that your war buddy is okay.” Fury turns to one of the screens, types a few commands, and turns it to face Steve.

It’s a video feed, high quality. Bucky is standing with Natasha in a room full of ex-SHIELD doctors. It reminds Steve of the rooms he was ushered in and out of after he woke up. It reminds Steve of the rooms Bucky was tortured in. Anger is bubbling up under his skin. It makes his hands twitch, makes him wanna smash the screen, grab Bucky, and go as far away as possible.

“Relax, Rogers,” Fury says. “We read the file, too. We don’t intend on putting him in a situation that’ll trigger his programming.”

Steve could growl. “What are you doing to him?”

Fury considers. “Psych evals, mostly. Physicals. We’re gonna make him piss into a cup and see what happens.” Steve grimaces. “Nothing heavy. We understand that he’s delicate. And, as apprehensive as it makes me, we understand that he’s better off with you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Steve asks.

Fury sighs. “Any ex-SHIELD agent with no HYDRA loyalties that wants to help you. Rogers, we’re on the same team. But before we play ball we need to compromise. This is a great start.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “A ‘start’?”

“Romanov fast-tracked his file to the public. I’m sure you’re aware that a surplus of the population is interested in seeing Barnes come out of hiding. There is pressure on all of us for him to go public.”

Steve swallows hard. “He’s not ready,” he says.

Fury gives him a cold look. “We know.” Steve doesn’t want to ask him how he knows. “Which is why we want to help him get ready.”

Steve zeroes in on him, narrows his eyes. “You’re not keeping him.”

Fury snorts. “I agree. We’re not.” Steve blinks. “Rogers, he’s better off with you. All we ask is that you keep in contact with us.” Steve gives him an uneasy look. “And that he sees an ex-SHIELD therapist twice a week.”

Steve’s body language gives him away. Fury continues. “Rogers, we’re offering you an excellent opportunity.” It is Steve’s only option.

“A therapist?” he asks.

Fury nods. “You’re good, Steve, but Barnes needs professional help. Don’t even try to deny that.”

Steve chews on his lip. “I agree to the terms, Fury, but he’s the only one that can give the final say.”

Fury smiles. “I hoped that you would say that. Why don’t you talk to him yourself?”

They vacate the room. Fury leads him down a damp, dull hallway, and then down a damper flight of stairs, and finally into a duller elevator. “Where did you find this dump?” Steve asks.

“Old SHIELD building we had floating around. Securest location we have left in the area,” Fury explains. The rest of the elevator ride is silent.

They find Bucky in a small room, sweat slick on his skin. Steve begins to panic, and it shows on his face because Bucky stops him. “They made me run,” he says. It is reassuring and simple. It is clear from the faces of the doctors around him that it is probably the longest thing that they’ve heard him say.

“Evals are done, diagnostics are being run and the results won’t be in until tomorrow at the earliest,” a young doctor says to Fury. He nods.

“Looks like class is over,” he says. Bucky gives him a dull, half-dead glare. Steve has to bite his cheek from laughing. He sees Natasha across the room doing the same.

“He did great,” she says. Steve takes a sigh of relief. He steps closer.

“How’d it go?” he asks. Bucky shrugs. “We can go home,” Steve continues. “But they want you to see a shrink twice a week.”

Bucky nods. “I know,” he says. He sounds drained. “I said yes.” He looks up at Steve, begging for a positive response. Steve smiles.

“One more thing,” Fury says. “We want to take a look at that arm. Unfortunately, the only guy in the world who can make sense of it isn’t returning our phone calls.” Steve frowns. “Don’t worry,” Fury continues. “We’ll track him down.”

They are allowed to leave together. Every step out of the building feels like eternity.

As they step into the apartment, they turn to each other. They kiss on the couch until Bucky falls asleep.


	14. close, but never close enough

There is a closed door. It’s painted pale cream. There are no scratches or chips; Steve assumes that the owner of the apartment had it repainted before Steve moved in. Steve counts to three.

There was one (1) news broadcast, the kind that plays on repeat once every two hours on the morning news. “Now this is quite the story,” the female news broadcaster said. She was beautiful, starched and painted. She turned to her co-anchor, a blonde woman who might look something like Sarah Rogers if she wiped the makeup off her face. “James Barnes, former Howling Commando and most recently revealed as the identity of the masked assailant the ‘Winter Soldier’, has a fanbase!”

“A fanbase?” the co-anchor said.

“Yes! A fanbase!” the original broadcaster clarified, speaking to both her friend and the audience. “A group of Internet activists are trying to start a movement on twitter. They even have their own hashtag.” Her voice denoted a hint of disapproval. The hashtag “#savejamesbarnes” floated across the bottom of the screen.

“Why on earth would they be trying to do that?”

The original broadcaster shrugged. “You can ask them that yourself, we have one of creators of the movement on our show today. Everyone, please welcome Brendon Waldau.” There was a smattering of applause. A well-dressed young man appeared on-screen, seated at the end of the desk with a coffee in hand. “Brendon, thank you for joining us,” she said.

“Hey, thanks for inviting me,” he replied.

The broadcaster nodded. “Now, to get us started I’m going to repeat the question that Alice posed – why?”

Brendon smiled. He was handsome, with bright white teeth, dark skin and black-rimmed glasses. “Monica, I’m going to answer that with another question. Have you actually read the Winter Soldier file?”

Monica, the original broadcaster, smiled. “No, I can’t say that I have. Alice?”

Alice shook her head. “Yikes! Too graphic for me, I could barely handle Godzilla!” A couple of light laughs flittered up from the audience.

Brendon smiled wider, but there was something cold behind his eyes. “Well, in the file we learn that Barnes was not acting out of his own free will. The Winter Soldier was just a puppet, a dog that HYDRA would sic on people that it didn’t like.”

“That sounds awful,” Monica said.

Brendon nodded. “It is awful. What’s more is that we have evidence that the programming wears off. There are multiple cases of the Soldier being in the field and “becoming” Barnes again, or completing a mission and seeing something that would trigger a memory. It’s all right there in the file. The Black Widow said in a press conference last Monday that Barnes was being held at a secure location. If Barnes is safe – and remembering who he is – there’s a good chance that he’s watching us.”

“Spooky,” Alice said.

Brendon shrugged. “I guess you could think of it like that, but I prefer to think of it like this: he’s been a POW for a long time, and he’s finally come home. What’s he going to see? People calling him a monster for something that he had no control over? Or people welcoming him back?”

On the couch, in Steve’s apartment, Bucky swallowed hard and continued to watch.

“But he killed people,” Alice said.

Brendon shook his head. “It wasn’t him. It was HYDRA’s programming.”

Monica pursed her lips. “So, the point of the ‘Save Bucky Barnes’ movement is… ?”

“To let him know that he’s safe. To let him know that we want to help him, that he can come out of hiding, and he’ll find people that don’t think he’s at fault. It’s also a way to help Captain America.”

“Captain America?” Monica asked.

“In the ‘30s and ‘40s, Barnes and Cap were best friends,” Brendon explained. “They went toe to toe over the Potomac this April. If Cap didn’t know the Soldier’s identity before then there is no way that he could have avoided it after the battle.”

“But Captain America hasn’t said anything,” Alice pointed out.

Brendon shrugged. “Maybe he’s scared. Alice, tell me, who’s your best friend?”

Alice laughed nervously. “Monica, probably.” Monica smiled. The audience rumbled gently, a few ‘aww’s made their way above the din.

“If something like this happened to Monica, would you try to help her?”

“Of course,” Alice said. More ‘aww’s. Brendon smiled and nodded.

Monica, obviously flustered, looked at her notes, then back to Brendon. “You have a couple of celebrity backers, would you mind telling us about them?”

Brendon nodded again. “Sure. We’ve had a lot of support from celebs on twitter, the most notable, I think, being Bruce Banner and Pepper Potts.”

“Bruce Banner doesn’t have a twitter,” Alice said.

Brendon smiled sheepishly, looked down. “No, uh, he sent a letter. It’s probably a good thing that he stays away from twitter.” There was gentle laughter.

“Well, Brendon, I’m not sure if you’ve sold me, but I’m definitely curious. Tell me, if people are interested, how can they help?” Monica asked.

Brendon grinned. “Well, people can tweet and get the word out. We also have a website, at savejamesbarnes.com. Right now we’re mostly trying to spread awareness, but we also have a donations section where people can give money to help rebuild DC. There were a lot of aid campaigns directly after the disaster, but now those have mostly tapered out and there is still a lot of work to be done in the city. One hundred percent of the proceeds go to charity, and if you donate more than one hundred dollars you get a Bucky bear.”

“A Bucky bear?” Alice asked.

“Yeah,” Brendon said. “During World War II, when Cap was just starting to be an American icon, he had a side-kick named Bucky. Barnes’ childhood nickname was Bucky, and he was supposed to be the ‘kid side-kick’ that every little boy or girl could relate to. They made ‘Bucky bears’, which were basically just teddy bears with a little costume. They were crazy popular for a few months, but their sales dropped after Barnes was lost. We’re trying to bring them back as a show of support.”

“That’s actually very cute,” Alice said. “Can I see one?”

Brendon nodded. “Yeah, I brought a couple for you two.” He pulled two of them out of his bag, placed them on the table. The camera did a close up. The anchors cooed.

Bucky turned the TV off, walked quietly to his room, and shut the door.

He came out two (2) times a week, for therapy. He was silent as a mouse. Steve missed him when he left the house half of the time.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Steve asked.

“No,” Bucky had said. “I can go there by myself.” And he did.

“How was it?” Steve asked.

“Alright,” Bucky had said. “She reminds me of your mom.”

“You remember my mom?” Steve asked.

“Enough,” Bucky had said. He closed the door to his room.

They did not kiss. Bucky didn’t entangle himself with Steve, or sleep like a guard dog at the bottom of the bed. The leaves fell, and the air grew cold.

Peggy had three (3) weeks to live, at most, according to her doctor.

“Are you here to see her?” her great-granddaughter asked. She was small, young, and no older than fifteen. She had Peggy’s nose.

Steve nodded. He had seen her before, but she had never said a word to him. She was shy, he knew. He could tell. He had been her, once, to someone like him.

“My mom’s out,” she continued, moving aside so he could step in. “I’m, uh, not supposed to let anybody in, but you’re Captain America so I think it’s okay.”

“You can call me Steve,” he said.

She laughed nervously. “Uh, okay. Cool.” She stopped, then, “Oh, uh, you can call me Marla. That’s my name.”

The house was nice. Steve had never been there; Peggy had always been in some fancy hospital room. It was dark, oak. It reminded him of bars in Europe during the war.

“She’s up here,” Marla said. “Um, I’m sorry, but she hasn’t really been awake a lot.”

“That’s alright,” Steve replied. “Thank you for telling me, Marla.” She nodded.

“Can you find your way out after?” He nodded.

“Okay,” she said. Her eyes were tired and sad, and she slouched at an angle that denoted despair but her body was tense with apprehension. She swallowed hard. “Nice meeting you.”

“You too, Marla,” he said. She left him.

She was right. Peggy slept. She was small in her bed, barely there at all. Her breath was shallow. She smelled like death.

She had three weeks and lasted three and a half. _Classic Peggy_ , Steve had thought.

Steve stands at the closed door. It’s painted pale cream. Steve counts to three. Steve knocks.

He’s dressed in a suit, his hair is combed back, and his shoes are shined. He’s wearing clothes for a funeral. “Bucky,” he croons. There is no answer. He knocks again. “Bucky, I know that you’re in there and that you can hear me. I need you to answer the door and talk to me.” There is no answer. “Bucky, this isn’t 1939; I do have the ability to knock down this door if you don’t open it.”

The door opens. Bucky is in layers, with a good coating of stubble and greasy hair pushed back. He almost looks like he did in ’41, with so much gel in his hair he could stick it straight up if he wanted to, but he’s tired here, with dark bags and a slack jaw.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, mostly shocked that he opened the door.

Bucky looks him up, down. “You’re fancy,” he says.

“I’m going to Peggy’s funeral,” Steve replies.

Something flashes across Bucky’s face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Steve says. “She was old,” he continues. “She had a great life.”

“What did you want?” Bucky asks, his voice hard.

Steve swallows, laughs a little. “To see your face, mostly.” Bucky frowns. “Where did you go?”

“You know where I am,” Bucky replies.

There’s a mix of things he can read on Steve, helplessness and sorrow are the most prominent. They make his heart twist, and he wrings his hands. “Please go to the funeral, Steve,” Bucky says. He has to force the words out, as they threaten to die in his throat.

“They aren’t hurting you at SHIELD, are they?” Steve asks. He’s using his ‘Captain America’ voice. He’s hiding behind it.

“No,” Bucky says. He’s telling the truth.

Steve swallows, nods. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says.

The funeral is held in a church. Steve is struck by a kind of ecclesiastical splendor he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, being dragged to church by his mother every Sunday before she got too sick to go. Outside, the sky is grey. Rain hits the stain glass windows. Steve watches it pool and drip.

The church is packed. Her family is crawling around him, friends and colleagues and people who owe their life to her file in and pile up.

“Hi,” he hears a voice say at his side. Marla stands in black, with a white knit sweater wrapped around her. He turns and she shrinks. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll go.” She begins to hustle away, head turned down.

“Wait,” Steve says. She stops.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Steve frowns. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’ll leave you alone. It was stupid, I should go.” She stammers.

“It’s okay,” he says. “What’s going on?”

She rocks back on her feels, pulls at her sleeves. “This is going to sound weird, but I really don’t know anybody here besides you and my parents.”

He smiles. “I don’t know anybody here either.” She relaxes. The funeral starts in twenty minutes. Now, people are paying their respects.

The casket is closed before them. It’s made of dark wood, smoothed and polished _(he thinks of scuffed floors and high-heeled shoes. The lights are dimmed and the room is-)_.

“Can I ask you a question?” Marla asks. She is nervous. Steve nods. “Did you love her?”

Steve grimaces. Around him, people are abuzz. Old and young, all shapes and sizes and colours. “I guess I didn’t really know her. Not really. Only for a couple of months a long time ago.” He pauses, thinks. Flowers clutter the altar. Two pictures sit above the casket, one from the late 1940s and another from 2009. She is beautiful in both. Steve’s heart is heavy. “Yes, I did.”

“She loved you, too,” Marla replies. “I mean, like she loved my great-grandpa and stuff, but she loved you a lot. She told me about you when I was just a kid. Everyone knew she loved you.”

Steve smiles sadly. “When my plane was going down, during the war, she talked to me. The whole time.”

“I know,” Marla says. “I mean, not really. Like, I just know that you talked. Like, we learn that in school.”

“Do they tell you what we talked about?”

“No,” she replies.

Steve swallows. “I promised her a dance. We had a date.”

“Did you ever dance with her?” Marla asks.

“No,” Steve says. “Never got the chance.”

The procession is massive. There is military presence, and there are special honors, and Peggy’s youngest niece cries loudly through the whole thing. It gives Steve secondhand embarrassment. They let him sit with the family and, from his seat behind her he lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. She grabs it and doesn’t let go until the ceremony is over. Marla gives him an apologetic look.

After, there is a reception. Half of the guests depart for good, half of them meet at the house where Peggy Carter died.

Marla stays behind. Her mother (or, the woman Steve assumes is her mother) pulls her aside. She returns to him like a timid mouse. “Steve, do you think you could help carry some of the flowers out to the car before you go to the reception?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says. They load the flowers.

“How do you like the future, Cap?” Marla’s father asks him when they are alone. Steve is bringing the last of the potted plants to the trunk of the car. Marla’s father is holding an umbrella over Steve.

“Well, besides the funeral it’s alright,” Steve replies. Marla’s father says nothing else to him for the rest of the night. Steve knows he should feel bad, but can’t bring himself to commit.

Steve rides with them to the reception. The car is silent and stuffy. Marla sniffles quietly and looks out the window. She wishes that the city would fall into the sea. Steve understands.

The reception is in full swing by the time that they arrive. The house is packed with people and food, but Steve can’t shake a cold, numb feeling. It reminds him of sitting in a bombed out tavern in Europe, downing drinks that he can’t feel and replaying Bucky’s fall over and over again in his head.

 _Who came to you then?_ he thinks. _Peggy._

“Thank you for helping with the flowers,” Marla says.

“It’s no problem,” he says. Marla is like low light next to him. Her mother calls her away, and Steve is left out in the open.

“Hey Cap,” they say, “How do you like the future?”

“Internet’s nice,” he says. “We used to boil everything.” They are satisfied. They leave. This happens four times.

“Hey Cap,” a very drunk uncle says, “What are the chances of you hooking me up with the Black Widow?”

“Extremely low,” he says.

“Can’t even give me a phone number?”

Steve gives a strained laugh. “Pal, you have no idea what you’re asking.” There are a few laughs from the surrounding groups. Steve is aware that he’s drawn a decent-sized crowd. They hold paper plates filled with food and watch, a mass of black clothing.

“Why not, Cap, help a guy out. I promise I’ll be good to her.” He laughs. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to Steve. He knows it’s time to leave.

He opens his mouth to speak, but there is a voice in the crowd louder than his.

“Hey, Cap!” he hears. “How’s Bucky doing?” The voice is not well-meaning. There is an accusation behind it, a mean bite to the words. Steve’s veins are like ice. He grits his teeth.

“Yeah,” someone else says. “He still psycho or what?”

Steve stands up straight, steps forward. The crowd steps back. “I don’t know anything about Bucky,” he tells them. His voice is like steel. He can feel them cower away from him.

He says nothing else, but parts the crowd like the Red Sea. They watch him leave. He exits their line of sight and finds Marla in the kitchen.

“I’m leaving,” he says.

“Alright,” she replies. “It was nice to talk to you.”

“You take care of yourself,” he tells her.

“You too,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This stupid thing is sitting at twenty-eight chapters currently, with more on the way. I am still writing as I am posting. Thank you for reading.


	15. (sorrow slow dances)

Steve thinks of scuffed floors and high-heeled shoes. The lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. It smells like cigarette smoke and something more – husky, like maple, or possibly hardwood finish. It’s an old smell. The floor creaks beneath them. Music croons in the background. His hands are wrapped around Peggy’s waist. She smells like vanilla and the cold fog that settles over forests.

Steve thinks of the funeral. He’s still dressed nicely, lounging on the couch. The lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. The apartment is silent. He can hear rain hitting the glass windows. He wishes that he could still get drunk.

There is movement from Bucky’s room. Steve can hear the floor creak. He closes his eyes and listens to the door open. There are tentative footsteps down the hallway. They echo in the silence. Steve opens his eyes.

“I’m sorry about Peggy,” Bucky says. His voice is slow and sad, but not robotic.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve replies. He doesn’t turn his head. Bucky creeps closer.

“I don’t remember much of her,” Bucky continues. He sounds wary. “But I know that she meant a lot to you. He was jealous of her.”

Steve stops. He turns to face Bucky, eyebrows raised. “He – _you_ – were jealous of Peggy?”

Bucky swallows. “He knew that you were close. You were very different. You didn’t need him to protect you. And you had her. He was of no use to you.”

Steve turns away, puts his head in his hands. “I’m sorry you thought that, Bucky,” he says. He knows that he’s drawn thin. He knows that there are dark clouds over him. He knows that there is thunder in his chest. “But you’re wrong. I wasn’t different. I just looked different. And I always need you.” His voice is cold, colder than it’s been with Bucky since some time in the early 1940s.

“No, no,” Bucky croons. He steps closer. “I didn’t mean – I’m sorry I didn’t –“ Steve isn’t looking, but he knows that Bucky is wringing his hands. He can hear Bucky begin to pace. “They weren’t thoughts that he wanted to have, but he had them anyway.”

Steve swallows hard. He feels like a dick. “Bucky, I’m sorry, it’s okay.” Steve turns back to face him. “Just stop – stop pacing. Just take some deep breaths. Sit down.” Bucky looks at him with wide eyes, like a frightened animal. After a few minutes, his pacing slows and he shoves his hands in his pockets. He sits in the lounge chair next to the couch.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Steve says with a deep sigh.

“No,” Bucky says. His voice is quiet. “I was bad.”

Steve rubs his head. “No, Buck, it’s fine. You just –“ Steve pauses. “You just pissed me off a little.” He smiles sadly. Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“I just wanted you to be happy for me, back then,” Steve continues. Bucky doesn’t say anything. Steve knows he’s pushing it. “You always had girls, Bucky. And finally, one of them was interested in me, and she was one of the best damn ladies I’d ever met. She’s gone now.” Steve frowns. “I – we talked when the plane was going down. After I defeated the Red Skull, and the plane was going down, she was on the radio. She talked to me the whole time, Bucky. She thought I was gonna die. I thought I was gonna die.” Steve stops to take a deep breath. “I wanted to die.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Steve continues. “I was terrified. And she knew it, too. So, we set up a date to take our minds off things. I was gonna take her out dancing. You always went out dancing, Buck, but I never did. I couldn’t keep up, and even if I could no doll in her right mind would have wanted to go with me. But now I could, and Peggy wanted to.” Steve’s voice catches. “We never went dancing.”

“But I thought about it. The whole time I did. I lost contact with her and I was all alone, and we hit the water. I was fading fast, Buck, I was gone. And I kept thinking about dancing with her. In my head, we were at a tavern somewhere. And I don’t know how to dance, so I just pretended to do what I always saw you do. And I kept focusing on that, and the cockpit was filling with water, and I was freezing. Eventually, it felt like you were there with me. And we were dancing. And you had your hands on my waist, and you were telling me that it was going to be okay, that it was just like going to sleep.”

Steve breaks, but he laughs. It is heavy with sorrow. “Bucky, I was convinced that it was you. Up until I found you in DC, I was convinced that it was you. I never – I’m not a church guy. If my mom were here she’d smack me for saying that, I know she would. People think I’m a church guy. It’s part of my image. I’m Captain America; I’m supposed to be wholesome. I really played it up when I came back. It’s what people were expecting of me, and I didn’t know if I should offer them anything different. But it was easy to play it up, Buck, because I kept thinking about dying. And I kept thinking about you, in the cockpit with me, telling me that it was going to be alright. I thought – I thought you must have come from heaven, or some other afterlife. And that one day, we’d be together again, and we could drink by the docks and, hell it’s heaven so I’d probably have my bike, and I could take you on rides, and it would just be us.”

There is silence. Rain hits the window.

Bucky speaks. He is quiet. “Why did you want to die?”

Steve stifles a bitter laugh. “Bucky, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not a big fan of life without you.”

Bucky doesn’t move. “We danced, once,” he says.

Steve nods. “Yeah, we did. In the kitchen of our apartment.”

“It was the last thing I forgot,” Bucky says. “Even after I forgot my name, I could remember dancing with you.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. He feels shriveled, wasted, exhausted. He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Bucky,” he says. It’s the realest, truest thing he can offer.

“I know,” Bucky says. Thunder rumbles. Bucky stands. Steve stays seated. He stares at the black screen of the TV while Bucky moves around him. He pads into the kitchen and turns on the radio. Steve raises his eyebrows. The oldies station drifts in.

Bucky stands in front of him and holds out a hand. His face is neutral. “I am going to teach you how to dance,” he says. Steve’s lip twitches into something like a smile, but his mouth never moves to complete the motion. He takes Bucky’s hand.

They stand together, in position. Bucky hesitates, and Steve thinks for one second that Bucky is going to look up at him with clear blue eyes and say “I don’t remember how to dance.” But that doesn’t happen. Instead, Bucky applies pressure to Steve’s back. He leads.

Bucky is a good teacher. Steve remembers reading in the file that they had the Winter Soldier train young operatives for a time in the 1980s. Steve wonders if Bucky’s using some tricks he picked up then, but he can’t be bothered to care because the lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. Bucky’s hands are wrapped around him, on his hips, and he’s close, closer than he’s been in weeks. He smells like laundry detergent and sweat, and _Bucky_.

Steve buries his head in Bucky’s shoulder. He can feel where flesh turns to metal beneath the fabric of Bucky’s sweater. He wraps his hands tight around Bucky’s body, and Bucky replies in turn. They’ve stopped dancing, and they are still. “I’m sorry,” Steve says, and he chokes out a sob.

Bucky says nothing but holds him tighter. They sway.

\--

Steve wakes up slowly. There is someone beside him, a weight pressing down in the mattress. It is comforting and familiar, and it makes him move like molasses. He stretches his legs and arms, readjusts his body, and eventually rolls over to face his bed mate.

Bucky is lying stiff above the sheets, but he wraps his right arm around Steve. It is muscle memory. Steve leans into the touch. The sunrise is an hour away.

“You asked me where I went,” Bucky says. His voice is strained, but vibrant with emotion.

“Did I?” Steve asks. He blinks lazily.

Bucky nods. “Before you left.”

Steve sighs with a mix of regret and remembrance. “I’m sorry, Buck,” he begins.

Bucky stops him. “No, don’t. Don’t apologize.” Steve looks up at him. “I know that I can be hard to be with.” Steve moves to unwind himself from the sheets and sit against the pillows with Bucky; instead Bucky runs his right hand through Steve’s blond hair. It’s gentle and casual, and Steve gets the message. He leans back down.

“But you still keep me around,” Bucky continues. The hood of his sweater is up, and he’s wrapped in layers of clothing. He looks very small.

“’Til the end of the line, pal,” Steve echoes. Bucky snorts and offers a wry smile.

“You’re too damn good Steve, you really are. I don’t know why you ever started hangin’ around me.”

Steve smiles to himself. “Your charm and natural good looks helped.”

Bucky sits in silence, but there is something akin to a grin in his eyes. It fades and he frowns. “I have fans,” he says.

“Fans?”

Bucky curls inward. “I saw it on TV. The Widow was right.”

Steve chews on his lip. “Natasha usually is.”

“They have Bucky Bears. They say they want to ‘save’ me.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “They brought Bucky Bears back?”

“They’re stupid. I’m a monster.” Bucky is pure grey, drips like a man melting into sorrow.

Steve frowns. “They’re not stupid, Bucky,” Steve says. “They know the truth. They want to help you.”

“I’m an abomination, Steve,” Bucky spits out. His words are harsh, and he moves his hand away from Steve’s head.

“Wasn’t you, Buck,” Steve says. His voice is quiet, calm.

“But it was, Steve! That’s what you don’t get, it was me. They weren’t my actions, they weren’t my targets, but the Winter Soldier has always been there. Since I was just a kid, Steve.” His voice cracks. “I thought that, before I started remembering things, maybe I was a hero. A long, long time ago but maybe there was something good in me somewhere, that I could get back if I just _tried_.” He sobs, pulls his legs closer to his chest. Steve moves away, sits upright despite Bucky’s intentions.

“I’ve tried, Steve. I remember. And there’s nothing – everyone’s wrong about me, I was always –“

“- Bucky - “

“- always bad. And just _angry_ , and sad, the whole time. It’s always been there, Steve, they just weaponized it. It’s not programming or orders, it’s just _me_.” Bucky chokes on the last word. “I’m a bad, bad guy Stevie.”

“Bucky!” Steve shouts. Bucky gives him a pathetic look. “Bucky, you are not a bad guy. I know you better than anyone else alive, and I can vouch for that. Everybody gets sad and angry –“

“Not you,” Bucky says.

Steve could laugh. “Are you kidding me? I snapped at you, and cried on your shoulder less than twelve hours ago.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like that. Not like me.”

Steve huffs. “Bucky, everybody gets sad and angry. Some people spend their whole lives that way. It doesn’t make them bad people.”

Bucky doesn’t say a word. He shuts down, turns his face away from Steve and gives a glassy-eyed stare at the white wall. Steve frowns, leans over and touches him on his left shoulder.

He knows immediately that he’s made a mistake. Bucky moves faster than lightening; Steve barely manages to get away. He braces for a solid metal punch to the face, scrambles backwards off of the bed, and stands with his shield in a defensive pose.

But Bucky only growls, turns to face him. His eyes are wide with shock and horror and shame. His right hand is curled around the blankets. His left arm is dangling pathetically at his side.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Steve asks, all sense of battle readiness forgotten and replaced by concern.

“I can’t move it,” Bucky chokes out. He sounds miserable and pathetic.

“It was fine last night?”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s been going for a while. They never – they never actually taught me maintenance. Basic stuff, for missions. But I don’t know how to fix it.” Bucky swallows. “I’ve been trying to work on it for weeks but last night after you fell asleep it just – stopped.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were having problems with it?”

Bucky’s face is buried in his right hand. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Steve frowns. “Is that why you’ve been in your room?” Bucky doesn’t reply. “Bucky, you wouldn’t have bothered me. We need to get it fixed.”

“ _Why_?” Bucky sobs. “It’s evil.”

“Bucky,” Steve says gently. “It’s your arm.”

“I lost my arm in ’44.”

Steve sits at the foot of the bed. “We at least need to get it taken off. You can’t lug that thing around.”

“How,” Bucky begins, his voice cold, “Do you propose we do that?”

Steve chuckles bitterly. “I’ve got someone in mind,” he says.

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve takes a deep breath. “We’re gonna make him see you.”


	16. high noon has changed it's tune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed the rating has changed. Sixteen chapters later and something sexy has finally happened.

There’s a number in Steve’s phone that he knows he could call, but the chances of Tony picking up are slim to none. Instead, Steve takes the back route. It’s sneaky and devious, but it fills him with a kind of sick pride underlying the desperation. He thinks that, if he weren’t a perpetual mess under the blankets on the couch, Bucky would appreciate it.

“Pepper,” Steve says. He is staring out the kitchen window. The light is cold and grey. It might snow soon. “I need to ask you a favor.”

In all honesty, getting a hold of Tony is weirdly easy. Pepper offers loyalty to the cause, and asks after them both. “I’ll set up an appointment,” she says.

“Will Tony be okay with this?” Steve asks.

“He’s read the file,” Pepper replies, and she leaves it at that.

They see him the next Tuesday. It is another cold, grey day. Steve runs hot and he doesn’t need a coat. Bucky wears his instead. Pepper sends a driver for them. Bucky spends the entire ride clutching his left arm and leaning toward Steve.

The driver navigates the tunnel system under the Avengers tower. They are escorted through the building.

“Hello Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS says when they enter. Bucky jumps. Steve catches him trying to move his left arm, muscle memory. He fails miserably. Steve averts his eyes.

“Hey JARVIS,” Steve replies. “Bucky, this is JARVIS. He’s Tony’s computer.” Bucky narrows his eyes and looks around.

“Apologies, sir, but you won’t be able to see me physically. I’m wired remotely throughout the building.” Bucky doesn’t relax, but he does nod. JARVIS continues. “I must also apologize on behalf of Miss Potts. She couldn’t make it to greet you this afternoon. She left me in her stead. Mr. Stark is waiting for you in his workshop. If you’ll please follow me.” Vibrant blue footsteps appear on the floor in front of them. The footsteps begin to walk, and they follow. Bucky watches them with a healthy amount of mistrust.

“We have arrived at our destination,” JARVIS tells them when they stop at a large metal door. It opens with a whir.

Tony’s workshop is massive, impressively massive, more of an atrium than a workshop. Spare mechanical parts and plans litter tables, posters hang on walls, and Steve can see half-finished robots and computers placed here and there.

“Sir, Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes have arrived.”

Tony looks up from a workbench. Steve hadn’t even seen him. He pulls off welder’s glasses and gloves, wipes his hand on his jeans and cracks his back. Steve can see the light in his chest underneath the AC/DC shirt. “Ah,” he says. “Super soldier tag-team. What brings you two ‘round these parts?”

Bucky is like steel next to Steve. Steve blinks. “Pepper said that she’d tell you –“

“Oh, yeah, she did,” Tony replies confidently. He walks toward them with an ease that makes Steve uncomfortable. “What’s up, big fella?” he says to Bucky. “Arm’s not working? Punch Hitler in the face one too many times?” Bucky glowers. “Damn commies never teach you how to work that thing?”

“It’s stopped working,” Steve says, louder. His voice is cold. “He wants it taken off.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, purses his lips. “And he can’t tell me that himself? C’mon, speak up. Lemme hear that accent.”

Bucky swallows. “I want you to take my arm off,” he says. His voice is even.

Tony smiles and claps his hands. “There it is! Not as strong as I had been led to believe, but hey, life’s full of disappointments.” Tony takes a step back. “So, you want your arm taken off? Just taken off completely, no replacement? I can build you something new because no offense pal, but that thing is very Soviet. Can’t blame ‘em, though, they’re about ten to twenty years behind us fashion-wise at any given time. You don’t want something sleek? I can customize it, add flames on the side, make ‘em blue if that’s your thing. Maybe some built in knives or explosives? That’d make your job a little bit easier wouldn’t it –“

“ _Tony._ ” Steve sets his jaw, brings himself up to his full height. Bucky leans behind him, not touching but enough to make a statement. Tony looks at Steve, looks at Bucky, and looks back at Steve.

“Never said I wouldn’t do it,” he says. There is something heavy on his voice. He looks Bucky up and down. “Strip, I need to see what I’m working with.”

Bucky makes brief eye contact with Steve, who nods, and he begins the process of peeling his clothing away layer by layer. Steve helps; Bucky’s metal arm hangs heavy and pathetic at his side.

Tony walks away and comes back with a stool and some tools, sets them all out on the nearest work desk. “They ever take that thing off before?” he asks. “Swap it out?”

“I don’t remember,” Bucky says. His voice drips with shame and embarrassment. “I mean – yes, but I don’t remember.” Tony gives him a long look. His expression is hard to read.

“Remember them doing any maintenance on it?” he asks.

“Before and after missions,” Bucky says. His voice is small. He has only his black t-shirt to go. There are goosebumps on his right arm. “But I don’t remember what they did. They never told me.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Anything you do remember?” Bucky swallows and looks down.

“Can’t you just find this stuff in the file?” Steve interjects.

“Yeah,” Tony says, keeping his eyes on Bucky, “But I wanted to see if he could tell me.” He turns on his stool, grabs a file. “The arm’s detachable. It’s gonna be a pain in the ass, but I can do it. Much more fun to just fix the thing.” He looks at the file. “You’re gonna need a metal plating where I detach it; do you have any preferences?” Bucky shakes his head. “Good, ‘cause you’ve only got one choice. Get over here and sit down. And take your shirt off.”

Bucky gives Steve a look and does what he’s told. Steve chafes, his nerves are on edge.

“Helicopter mom,” Tony says. It takes Steve a second to realize he’s speaking to him. “Go wait out in the lobby. Hope you brought Twilight; this is going to take a while.”

“I’ll stay right here,” Steve says. He takes a seat a few feet away from Tony.

Tony shrugs and turns to Bucky. He pauses for a moment, struck by the knotted mass of scar tissues around Bucky’s shoulder, leading across his chest and onward. Tony Stark is speechless.

He works silently. It’s the longest single period of time that Steve has ever seen him be quiet. For an hour and a half he says two things: “Music” and classic rock begins to play, and then “Cold?” directed at Bucky, who nodded. Tony made a hand motion and a few minutes later the temperature in the room had noticeably increased.

Tony is possessed in his work. He is on another plane entirely. Bucky sits patiently. He watches Tony’s hands, or closes his eyes. Steve catches him tapping his foot to the music at times. Steve makes a mental note: ‘show Bucky classic rock’. He scratches it out, replaces it with ‘get someone who understands classic rock to show Bucky classic rock’.

Two hours in, the arm is off. It doesn’t come to life suddenly and try to kill anyone, and it doesn’t explode. It detaches with a click. Tony holds it triumphantly.

“Well, that was anti-climactic,” he says. “I guess I don’t know what I was expecting because I disabled all of the fail-safes, but I digress.” Tony gives Bucky a casual wink. Steve sighs deeply and relaxes a little bit in his chair.

Bucky stares at his detached arm, and then licks his lips. Steve knows what he’s going to say before he says it - Bucky has that look in his eye that he gets when he’s going to say something that he shouldn’t but can’t stop. “I’m sorry about your parents.” It falls out of his mouth like word soup. Steve cringes and closes his eyes. “I didn’t want to do it.”

Tony swallows hard and puts the arm down. He motions to roll his sleeves up, but they’re already at his elbows. “Yeah,” Tony says. His voice is terse. He’s quieter now, sounds strung up. “Well, you did it.”

He walks away quickly, switches tools and picks up a chunk of metal. He’s loud. He’s making noise on purpose, tossing things that he doesn’t need and clanging parts together. He returns with purpose. His jaw twitches.

He holds up a piece of fitted metal. “I made this for you. I stole your measurements from your file and made a covering for you, for this purpose, for this meeting because I am a nice guy. I agreed to see you because Pepper asked me to because I am a nice guy, and she feels very sorry for you. She even has a Bucky Bear in her office as a statement, and it doesn’t bother me because I am a nice guy.”

Tony picks up a tool and begins to work on putting the plating on. “Hold still, this’ll take ten minutes tops. Then you two can be on your merry way and think ‘gee, that Tony Stark, he sure was a nice guy, he took off my big evil metal arm and gave me this neat plating.’

Tony is rough as he works, pushing Bucky into the chair (avoiding any scar tissue, skillfully placing his hand on Bucky’s right shoulder only). Bucky glowers dangerously, eyes wet and teeth biting into his lower lip. “So, one hundredth birthday coming up soon? Big one-zero-zero? Got any big plans? Maybe kill a politician or two for old time’s sake –“

“Tony!” Steve says, leaping to his feet, but it’s too late. Bucky is halfway out of the chair and he moves deftly, knocks the power tool out of Tony’s hand and grabs him. Tony yelps. The tool hits the ground and spins. Bucky stands to his full height but is off balance. He goes down on one knee and drags Tony with him.

When the dust settles, the two are facing each other. Bucky has a good grip on Tony’s left shoulder, but it is not harsh. He is firm. The two are shaking, breathing heavy. Tony’s eyes are wide.

“Bucky,” Steve calls out gently. Bucky doesn’t break eye contact with Tony.

“Your father was a good man, Tony. I didn’t want to hurt him.” Bucky grips harder. Steve moves to help, but Tony waves him away with his free hand. “He was my friend, and he saved my life. I didn’t want to hurt any of them, least of all him. When I received the mission, I said no, I said no because I recognized him, and I said no until they made me say yes.” He spits it out. He’s pathetic, crying and heaving.

Tony swallows. Steve thinks he might be fighting back tears. “I know,” he says. His voice is low and shaky. “I read the file,” he continues. “I know.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Finally, at a normal volume, Tony says “Let me finish your arm.” The two untangle and Bucky sits back down. The room is devoid of noise, besides that of Tony working. The music has stopped.

When it is over, Bucky stands up and inspects the work. He nods and begins to pull his shirt back on.

“Thank you, Tony,” Bucky tells him before they leave.

Tony nods, but avoids eye contact. “My father talked about you. He was always searching for Cap, but he talked about you, too. He would have been honored that you called him a friend.”

Bucky nods sadly. “Thank you, Tony,” he repeats.

“Can I keep the arm?” he asks in a jovial tone. Bucky nods. Tony blinks. “If you have any problems with it, just give me a call.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve says. His nerves are still a mess.

Tony offers a screwed up smile. Then, he says “Now get the hell out of my house.”

They get the hell out.

\--

Bucky is quiet on the ride home. He stares out the window and leans into his seat, but his silence is not devoid of character like it was when Steve first dragged him home from Europe. There are lights behind his eyes, and there are wheels turning in his head.

“Bucky,” Steve says. “I’m sorry about Tony. I should have warned you. He can be… a lot to handle.”

Bucky turns to Steve with a furrowed brow and a pout. “Do you think I’m upset about Tony?” he asks.

Steve bites his lip. “Well, yeah.”

Bucky barks out a harsh laugh, and Steve raises his eyebrows. “I can handle someone teasing me Steve; I’m not that fragile.” His voice is cold. It shuts Steve up.

They don’t talk for the remainder of the ride. Steve’s heart feels heavy. He closes his eyes.

When they get home, Bucky makes a beeline for the kitchen. There’s tea in the cupboards, a brand that he saw on TV and asked Steve to buy for him. Steve can hear the creak of the cabinets and some low swearing.

Bucky is struggling with one arm. Steve can see that he’s shaking, and that doesn’t help matters. Dishes clang together and finally Bucky sets everything out on the counter and stops.

“Would you like any help?” Steve asks.

“No,” Bucky growls. “I’m fine.” Steve nods and leaves him.

There is a long shower in between then and the next time they speak. When Steve emerges, hair dripping wet and refreshed, Bucky is seated at the kitchen table with a hot mug of tea and his head in his hand.

“Steve,” he says. He sounds pathetic, on the verge of tears.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I’m so sorry,” he drawls in a low, unsteady voice.

Steve looks troubled. “Why are you sorry?”

“I could’ve hurt him, Steve. I could’ve killed him and you the other night.” Bucky’s eyes are wide.

He’s right, Steve realizes. Two attacks cut short by the loss of the arm. It chills Steve to the bone and fear sinks into his skin. He hadn’t even noticed, not really, he had been too focused on getting Bucky help.

“I don’t know why, I just – “ Bucky begins, but he stops. He’s far away, and he sinks lower into his seat.

Steve thinks for a moment. Then, he says “Bucky, it’s fine.”

“What?” Bucky exclaims. “Steve, it is obviously not fine!” he replies, his voice rising to hysterics.

Steve takes a seat at the opposite end of the table. “Bucky, let’s look at it.”

“It seems pretty clear cut to me!”

Steve leans forward. “You’re stressed. Your arm has stopped working, and you’re scared. You’re carrying around a useless hunk of metal.” Steve swallows. “That’s just to start. I shouldn’t have tried to touch you. You were obviously upset, and I did something stupid. Tony was goading you on. He was backing you into a corner, so you lashed out.”

Bucky drops his hand in exasperation. “Steve, it doesn’t matter what you or Tony did; I shouldn’t have tried to attack you! I could have hurt you.”

“But you didn’t. Besides, Tony and I know how to handle ourselves.”

“I could have killed Tony today.”

Steve leans back. “But you didn’t. And you wouldn’t have. Even if you had your arm, you would have stopped yourself.”

Bucky breathes a shaky sigh and lays his head down on the table. His tea steams beside him. “Please leave me alone,” he says. Steve frowns, but nods.

He relocates to the couch. He grabs a book, and he doesn’t think that he’ll be able to get into it, but an hour later he’s so focused on reading that he doesn’t notice Bucky until he’s standing right behind him.

“Hey Buck,” he says. Bucky looks exhausted. He’s slouching and hangs over Steve like a big, dark cloud.

“Don’t stop,” Bucky says. Steve nods, but there’s concern written in his features. Bucky walks around him and takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch. Steve moves his legs, but Bucky pulls them back onto his lap. He sinks into the cushions.

Minutes pass, but Steve has lost the plot. He sets the book aside, and Bucky gives him an uncomfortable look. Steve leans down and further drapes his legs across Bucky’s lap. It’s a playful gesture, but Bucky doesn’t smile. Instead, Bucky turns to him and begins to crawl forward. He looks awkward with the one arm, but Steve is buzzing with excitement. Eventually, they end up entwined on the same couch cushion.

Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He showered for Tony. His hair is soft, and smells like strawberries. Bucky keeps his hand on Steve’s face, gently tracing his jawline. He drags his finger down the edge of his chin, and then places a timid kiss on Steve’s lips. Steve presses his forehead against Bucky’s and they bump noses. Bucky kisses him again, this time less shy but still polite. Steve pulls him closer yet, and kisses back. It sets the pace – slow and gentle. They kiss in low light.

Bucky chews on Steve’s bottom lip. In retaliation, Steve kisses back harder. Bucky moans and the jolt of surprise passes through Steve like lightening. Steve smiles against him, kisses harder again in an attempt to recapture that sound. Bucky catches on. His fingers curl around Steve’s hair, and he’s rougher. He winds around Steve’s body, pushes against him. He can feel Steve harden with a moan.

Searching fingers find their way down Steve’s pants. If Steve weren’t so lost, he would laugh. Just like teenagers, he would think. But he’s not currently in the business of thinking. Bucky grins against his mouth, bites his bottom lip again as he wraps his hand around Steve. He runs his fingers along his length. He can feel Steve’s hand frenzied on him, trying to creep down Bucky’s pants. Bucky kisses him harder in response, slings a leg over Steve until he’s effectively on top of him.

“Bucky,” Steve moans. Bucky chuckles low and dark, keeps his mouth busy by stealing Steve’s breath. His hands work in turn.

Steve’s own hands are shaking, but he manages to get his palms down Bucky’s pants. He’s sweaty with want and apprehension. At first touch, Bucky breaks and moans. It’s enough to keep Steve going, until he’s working his friend like he was made to.

On top, Bucky rolls his hips. Steve breaks for a moment, and Bucky runs his hand up his shirt. They’re both naked from the bottom down, rutting against each other. Steve’s hands are doing all of the work; Bucky is grasping at Steve.

They increase in tempo until Bucky comes hot over Steve’s stomach. He falls then, onto the couch next to Steve and partially on top of him. Steve can feel his warm breath on his cheek, and pressure building at the pit of his stomach. Bucky sighs, presses wet lips into Steve’s jawline and then down his neck as finishes Steve off. Steve comes with a moan, and Bucky covers his mouth with his own.

The lamplight casts everything in a warm orange like a fire or the last gleam of the sunset. Bucky is breathing slow on Steve’s chest, heavy and lazy like a cat. Steve has his arm draped over him, and his free hand is entwined with Bucky’s.

There will never be a day, Steve realizes totally and truly for the first time that Bucky will never completely come back to him. He will never wake up to Bucky like he was in his memories of Brooklyn. He will never have a Bucky that isn’t tormented by nightmares, or covered in scars. Bucky at twenty-three will never walk in through the front door with a cocky smile and a wild idea.

But this Bucky is okay, Steve thinks. Because he’s still Bucky. And he’s the only Bucky that Steve is ever going to have because he’s the only Bucky that exists. Steve runs his fingers up Bucky’s spine. He can feel Bucky’s lips curl into a smile against his chest.

“I meant what I said the other night,” Steve tells him. His voice is a low rumble. “I love you, Bucky. For a long time. Since we were kids. And all the way through. I was just too stupid to realize it.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Finally, he murmurs, “He – I wouldn’t have wanted you to realize it.” Bucky turns his head to face Steve. “Didn’t need another reason for people to pick fights with you.” There is humor in his eyes.

Steve smiles. He untangles his hand from Bucky’s and ruffles his hair. Bucky gives him a wild look and says “Punk!” before following Steve’s example.

Steve laughs. “Jerk.” Bucky blinks slow, lazy, and happy. He offers Steve a slow, wide smile, and then buries his head into Steve’s chest.

They sleep the entire night.


	17. tinting the solitude

“You brought presents?” Steve asks. He’s flustered. He’s shocked.

He’s a little bit scared.

“It’s the holiday season,” Natasha says with a calm, even voice. She offers a small smile.

“It’s December 2nd,” Bucky calls from the kitchen. “Seems a bit early.” He appears in the doorway and leans casually with his arm wrapped around his body. “Unless they changed that,” he says with a newfound urgency. “Did they change that?”

Natasha gives him a wider and wickeder smile before greeting him in Russian. “How’s your arm?” she asks. He shrugs. “And the meetings with the psychiatrist?”

“Better than HYDRA,” he replies. He’s not smiling, but there’s humor in his eyes. Natasha seems pleased.

In English, she says “No, they didn’t. I’ll be out of the country, and I wanted to make sure that your gifts arrived on time.” She turns to Steve. “And I need to speak with you.”

Bucky knows this is his queue to leave. He returns to his spot in the kitchen by the radio, an old stack of Flash Gordon comics next to him. Steve and Natasha are quiet, but conversation drifts. He thinks they know.

“You know what I’m here to talk about,” she says to Steve in a low voice.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And you know what I’m going to say.”

She chews on her lip. “It’s been a month since the file went public. This sort of thing is time sensitive. If he doesn’t make an appearance before he’s out of the public consciousness we’re fucked, Steve.”

Steve frowns. “Natasha, he locked himself in his room for three weeks. He’s not ready.” This is spoken lower. Bucky knows he wasn’t supposed to hear that.

Natasha sighs. “His therapy is going fine. He’s been improving since Stark removed the arm.” Steve glowers. Natasha speaks lower. “Even if he’s not ready, he needs to make an appearance. We can always disappear and reappear.”

Steve’s jaw is set, but he knows she’s right. “After Christmas,” he says.

“Too far away,” she says.

“It’s my only offer,” he replies.

She thinks for a moment, studies him. “Fine,” she says. “December 26th.”

Steve’s nostrils flare, but he nods. “Fine,” he replies.

Natasha walks away with purpose. She grabs two gifts from her bag and enters the kitchen.

Bucky looks up. “Open these,” she says. “I want to see your face.”

There are two presents, one big and one small. Bucky’s shocked. He stumbles as he grabs for the smaller present. “Stop,” Natasha tells him. “Big one first. It’s from Clint.” Bucky changes course. He’s never met Clint, but he’s heard stories. Steve watches from the doorway.

He pulls the brightly colored gift wrap away. He’s got skill with his one hand, but Natasha still holds it still for him while he makes the first tear. It’s an action that is uncharacteristically nurturing for her.

It’s a Star Wars blu-ray boxset. Bucky can’t help but grin. There’s a note from Clint that says “heard you have great taste in movies” The smiley face has an arrow through it. Bucky holds onto it for years.

“Now mine,” Natasha says. She pushes the gift toward him. It’s tiny, and there’s no box. It’s just an oddly shaped thing covered in wrapping paper. She holds it again while he tears into it.

He’s speechless when he sees it. “I hunted those down for you,” she says. “Thought you might like to have them back.”

Bucky holds his dog-tags in his hand. They’re coarse metal and worn, but they’re his. He swallows hard. “Thank you, Natalia,” he tells her.

“My pleasure.” She gives him a gentle half-smile.

Here is the part that Steve spends the better part of a night thinking about:

In Russian, Bucky turns to her. His voice is quiet and sad. There is a new, empty feeling in the room. “You were only thirteen,” he says.

She cracks. Just a little, but enough. Her eyes are kind, but her body language is tight. “I know,” she replies.

“You were just a kid,” he repeats.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him. “I grow up.” She bids adieu to Steve, and leaves them with a wave and the scent of perfume in her wake.

Steve does not ask, but he wonders. He leans against the door frame. The dog-tags are heavy in Bucky’s hand. It is a weight on both their hearts. Steve thinks he should say something, but nothing sounds right. The tags say enough for both of them. The clock ticks.

“She wants you to go public,” Steve says, finally. His voice cuts the silence. Bucky looks, but says nothing. Steve continues. “How do you feel about that?”

Bucky shifts his gaze away from Steve and back toward the dog-tags. “What is the danger?” he asks.

Steve furrows his brow, steps into the kitchen and leans against a counter-top. “What do you mean?”

Bucky runs his fingers across the indentation on the tags. “Will they attack us? Will they take me away?”

“No,” Steve says. “No, probably not.”

Bucky closes his hand around the tags and looks up. “Then what’s the danger? Why don’t you want to do it?”

Steve crosses his arms, thinks on how to word what he’s going to say. “Bucky, you’d be – well – “ Steve sets his jaw. “After New York, we were celebrities. We had to go on TV and talk to people. Photographers would follow us around and take pictures. People thought they were entitled to know about us.” He pauses for a moment. “It’d be like that.”

“Do you think I can’t handle it?” Bucky asks.

“Bucky, I could barely handle it, and I was more mentally sound than you are.”

Bucky stops. He wants to argue, but he knows he can’t. He offers a defeated sigh. “Steve,” he says. “They like me. I don’t know why but they do, and it’s – it’s a tactical advantage. And I think that we should use it.”

Steve frowns a little, but he nods. “You’re right,” he says. “You and Natasha both.” His movements are short, and his body language is weighted down by nerves. “Can we wait until after Christmas?”

Bucky considers. He wouldn’t care if they called a press conference in an hour, but Steve is dripping with trepidation. “Yes,” he says.

\--

“What the hell is that?” Sam asks when he sees the Star Wars boxset. The cases are open, strewn about the coffee table. Discs are haphazardly put back in place, lying nearby or hidden in the blu-ray player itself.

Bucky makes a low murmur. “Nat gave it to me.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Dammit,” he says. Bucky gives him a quizzical look. “I’m gonna need to make another trip to Walmart,” he explains.

It takes a moment for Bucky to understand, but when he does his eyes widen. “You got me a gift?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, leaning against the couch. “I like you. I buy things for people I like.”

“I haven’t gotten anyone a gift.”

Sam laughs. “Hey man, if you want to you got time. There’s like three weeks until Christmas. Just ask Steve to take you somewhere.” Sam shouts into the kitchen. “Steve! Take this man to Walmart! He needs to see what the 21st century is made of.” There is a joke in there that Bucky does not understand, but he nods along anyway.

Sam turns back to Bucky. “Hey, you’re getting pretty popular. Saw something about you on the news. They’ve got little bears and everything.”

Bucky grows stiff. “I know.”

Sam gives him a comforting look, turns toward him. “How do you feel about it?”

A low, bitter laugh arises out of Bucky. “Mostly confused,” he says, honest.

Sam nods. “You know that’s pretty normal, right?”

Bucky gives no confirmation. “You sound like my shrink.”

Sam smiles. “How’s that going?”

Bucky shrugs noncommittally. “She’s alright. She reminds me of Steve’s mother.”

“What was Steve’s mom like?”

There’s a moment of silence between them. The wheels are turning in Bucky’s head. He looks up with wide, genuine eyes and a smirk on his face. “Scary as hell.” Sam laughs.

Steve calls from the kitchen. “Hey!”

“Look, I’m sorry, but it’s true,” Bucky says. He stands up straighter, puts his shoulders back. “Like, do you remember when we were, I dunno, twelve? And it was January, and it was so cold, and you got into a fight with those guys who were throwin’ iceballs at people? And that one guy just _nailed_ you in the face, and you had blood just running down everywhere. But the thing was that we were right by your place, so before I could even get back in there I just heard your mom hollerin’ from up the steps, and she comes down. Honestly, I was a worried that she was gonna ruin our reputation because no one wants their mom fighting for them, especially at twelve, but she just fuckin’ let loose on those guys. One guy peed his pants, Steve, that doesn’t just happen.”

Sam is shaking with laughter. “What did she do, did she just yell at them?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, mostly. She knew everything about them, like their entire family. She was shoutin’ out names, and where they lived, and who she was gonna talk to about their behavior, and I didn’t even _know_ half these guys, they weren’t like, you know, neighbors. But she dug up intimate details about each one of them.”

“She had a broom, too, don’t forget that part,” Steve says from the kitchen.

Bucky laughs. “Yeah, she was swinging her broom around.”

“Was she like scary looking, or what?”

Bucky shakes his head. “She was like 5 feet tall, she was smaller than Steve. I was so sure that we were gonna get shit for that later, but not one of those guys brought it up again.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says. He’s wiping a tear away from his eye. “Hold up real quick, I’m gonna go refill my drink.” Bucky nods. Sam leaves.

“Yeah, she was a tough lady,” Steve says when Sam enters the kitchen. There are bowls and baking ingredients strewn about the place.

“Man, what are you even doing in here?” Sam asks.

“I’m trying to bake a cake,” Steve explains. Sam furrows his brow.

“Why?”

Steve points a spoon out toward the living room, toward Bucky. “He hasn’t had cake in decades.”

“So you’re making one from scratch? Nice, real classic,” Sam says with a chuckle.

“Of course, what else am I – oh,” Steve says, the realization hitting him mid-sentence. He can see it in his head: a clean kitchen, a free afternoon, a store-bought cake. Steve huffs. “Some of us are old-fashioned. Besides, I’m using my mother’s recipe.”

“You still have your mother’s recipe?”

Steve nods. “In the ‘40s I had to submit it to a patriotic cookbook during the war. I had to change it for rationing, but not that much because we never had enough anyway. I thought it was stupid at the time, but it was reprinted so often that I was able to get a hold of it again.”

“It was reprinted rationing and everything?”

Steve takes another look at the recipe, open in a book in front of him. “Yep,” he says. “I think it’s supposed to be part of the appeal.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, like an authentic Captain America thing.”

Steve scoffs. “I don’t understand why.”

“I assume you’re using original recipe?”

Steve cracks an egg, as if to prove his point. Sam laughs, opens the fridge. A comfortable silence falls on the apartment. He retrieves a can of ginger ale.

“You know, I was wrong,” he says, after a moment.

“About what?” Steve asks. He’s focusing on measuring.

“Him.” Sam’s voice is quiet. Steve looks up. “Before the Potomac, I said that there were two kinds of people like him: the kind you save, and the kind you stop. I said that he was the kind you stop.” Steve is silent. He remembers the conversation. “I was wrong.”

It is snowing gently outside. Sam continues. “He’s the kind you save.”


	18. put on your dancing shoes and show me what to do

**Various headlines, Mid-afternoon, December 9 th**

“Understanding the ‘Save James Barnes’ Movement”

“Barnes: Hero or Menace? A look from both sides”

“OLDEST, CLOSEST FRIEND? What is Captain America Hiding and What Does It Have to Do With Benghazi?”

**Twitter, 15:54, December 13 th**

“forreal tho if u think barnes should go 2 jail when he comes out of hiding don’t even tlk 2 me #savejamesbarnes #honestly”

“This isn’t a partisan issue. No matter what your politics you should be backing Barnes. #savejamesbarnes”

“does anybody else just want to hug bucky barnes or what #savejamesbarnes”

**Instagram, 22:34, December 18 th**

[Image of a teenaged girl holding a Bucky Bear. She is taking a selfie. There is a Christmas tree visible in the background.] Caption: “finally came in the mail! so worth it. #savejamesbarnes”

[Image of two young people, one boy and one girl, posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. They are holding Bucky Bears.] Caption: “not just americans who support james barnes #savejamesbarnes”

[Image of an elderly man seated in a plain kitchen. He is smiling, wearing a decorated military vest and holding a vintage Bucky Bear. He is a World War II veteran.] Caption: “told grandpa all about james barnes, he wanted to get in on the action & he had his own vintage bear! #savejamesbarnes”

**Tumblr, 17:10, December 21 st**

“SAVE JAMES BARNES MASTERPOST” Underneath the title is a short introduction. “Collection of posts answering basically every question you ever had about the Winter Soldier.” Then, the master-list:

“HYDRA, SHIELD AND DC  
                What is HYDRA? x  
                How did HYDRA infiltrate SHILED? x  
                What happened in DC? x x x  
                What was Project Insight? x x   
                How is the NSA involved? x x

CAPTAIN AMERICA AND THE HOWLING COMMANDOS  
                Who were the Howling Commandos? x (great overview, especially if you’re not American)  
                Who was James Barnes? x  
                Was James Barnes gay for Steve Rogers? x (basic) x (in-depth, very good but long!)

THE WINTER SOLDIER  
                Who is the Winter Soldier? x x  
                How has he stayed alive so long? x (GREAT post but very scientific) x (easier to understand)  
                How Bucky Barnes Forgot Who He Was (wonderful write-up, covers everything)  
                Why are we supporting him? x x x   
                Assassinations Accredited to the Winter Soldier x x   
                How do we know he remembers? x

CAPTAIN AMERICA AND THE BLACK WIDOW  
                Does Captain America know where James Barnes is? x x   
                Who really is the Black Widow? x   
                Where is James Barnes? x  
                Do the other Avengers know anything? x x x”

The post has 27,659 notes.

**4chan, 3:43, December 23 rd**

“[attached image of a man smiling smugly] >tfw u saw the winter soldier file drop before normalfags”

Selected comments: “[attached image of man crying] tfw u will never bury ur face in black widows ass”, “dude u kno what black widows do to their mates right”, “[attached image of man crying] tfw u will never be eaten alive by qt3.14 spider-woman”


	19. i know you've got the moves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is sexual content in this chapter. You have been warned!

Christmas comes too soon, and the press conference falls immediately after. It is a big, black pit of uncertainty in Steve’s future. It is a threat to him, to Bucky and to the weird domesticity they share that allows them to be here, on Christmas Eve, in the living room with the radio crooning softly from the kitchen. They are Christmas tunes, oldies but not old enough for either Steve or Bucky to recognize them. It’s not snowing outside, but there is snow on the ground and that’s enough.

Steve is drawing, seated at his desk. He’s sketching Bucky, who is wrapped in blankets and sweaters on the couch. A Christmas special is playing on TV, but the volume is down too low for even Steve’s super hearing to pick it up comfortably.

“Why did they have to make a movie?” Bucky asks. Steve looks up.

“What movie?”

“A Rudolph movie. Was the book not enough?”

Steve smiles and keeps sketching. “There’s a song, too,” he says absent-mindedly. He smirks and starts giving Bucky antlers.

“Oh, I know, Steve, I have heard that song,” Bucky replies with mock seriousness. He turns to look at Steve, and with a half-smile he asks “What are you drawing?”

“You,” Steve answers. He keeps sketching. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Bucky says immediately. “Can I see it?”

Steve smiles sadly. “Bucky, I always show you what I draw.”

“Haven’t shown me yet.”

Steve finishes the antlers. “Haven’t drawn a lot lately.”

There is a moment of silence. Only the music fills the apartment. “Because of me?” Bucky asks.

The answer is yes, but Steve says “No, I’ve just been busy lately.”

“Doing what? It’s not like you’ve been on any missions.”

Steve is trapped. He grimaces. “No, I’ve just been busy lately.”

“Steve, you are the worst liar, if you just say it’s because of me I’m not gonna feel bad or anything.” Bucky shoots him a sly grin as if to prove his point.

“Well, I’ve been busy with you lately,” Steve clarifies.

“There it is,” Bucky says. He sounds more and more like himself every day. It makes Steve’s heart ache.

“Do you wanna see it or not?” he asks. Bucky scrambles to get up.

“Steve, why do I have antlers?” is the first thing out of his mouth. He places his right hand on the desk by Steve’s and leans in. Steve can smell Bucky’s cologne – something cheap that he picked out at the convenience store – and his skin, the scent of laundry detergent on his clothes and shampoo in his hair.

“I was trying to capture the moment,” Steve explains.

“So you gave me antlers?” Bucky asks. He continues. “Not that I mind the antlers, I think they make me look, uh, ‘cool’.”

Steve laughs. “Buck, I would stay away from the slang for a little while if I were you.”

Bucky snorts. “Why, I’m just trying to be ‘hip’ for my big day.”

Steve swallows, but ignores it. “I’m speaking from experience, Bucky; it is not a good idea.”

Bucky stands up straight, runs his hand through Steve’s hair. “Don’t think I’m ‘swag’ enough to pull it off, Rogers?”

Steve closes his eyes. “Stop!” he moans, half in gest. Bucky removes his hand immediately. “Not that,” Steve tells him. The hand returns. Steve smiles. “I have to stop letting you watch day-time TV.”

“But Steve,” Bucky says, “How else am I supposed to keep up with the Kardashians?”

Steve chuckles warmly. Bucky’s hand trails from his head and rests on Steve’s shoulder. “Can you show me what else you’ve drawn?”

“I guess,” Steve says. “Here, you can page through it.” He slides the sketchbook toward Bucky.

Bucky peels back the first page, reveals a page full of half-drawn sketches of Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky frowns. He keeps paging. Sam’s wings. Natasha in mission gear, with short hair. Sam sitting underneath a tree. Bucky in his coat, during the war. Various DC skylines. Natasha flipping somebody off. Bucky laughing. A building. Bucky as a kid. Half of Natasha’s eye. Bucky frowning in his twenties. Some more buildings. Bucky at the docks, age fifteen. Bucky yawning. Bucky with his arms crossed. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.

Steve is suddenly very embarrassed.

“Miss me, huh?” Bucky asks. His voice is tight.

Steve swallows. “I meant to tell you.”

Bucky heaves a heavy sigh and curls his hand around Steve’s shoulder, tight. “I love you, you stupid punk,” he says. Steve thinks of the monotone, monosyllabic responses he gave soon after he came home.

“I love you too, Bucky,” Steve replies. Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s neck and rests his chin of Steve’s head.

“You’re too good to me, Stevie,” he murmurs.

“Well, there are a lot of people who haven’t been,” Steve tells him. “I have to make up for them.” He can feel Bucky smile sadly against his hair.

There is a moment of silence between the two of them. Bucky closes his eyes, absent-mindedly strokes Steve’s collar bone. Steve sits quietly, breathes deeply, tries not to think too much.

The music changes. Bucky stands up. “Finally,” he says. “A song I know. C’mon Steve, we’re going dancing.” His arm trails along Steve’s until he grabs his hand.

“Uh, Bucky –“ Steve starts, and Bucky pulls him up onto his feet.

“You don’t get a say in this, Cap’n.” Bucky smirks. Steve’s seen that look a hundred times, always directed at girls on dates. It goes through him like electricity. “C’mon Rogers, show me what you got,” he murmurs into Steve’s ear. Steve flushes.

They start like they did before, after Peggy’s funeral, but Bucky had two arms then, and he’s making a mess of things trying to lead with only one. Steve tries to take over, but he has two left feet and Bucky fights for control. Bucky laughs as he does, laughs harder than Steve has seen him laugh in years. It’s the least elegant dancing either of them has ever taken part in, but it works.

“Come in for the twirl, Steve,” Bucky says, and he holds out his hand. Steve laughs and takes it. He’s taller than Bucky now, but it doesn’t matter, and after the twirl they are pressed together. The song changes, it’s slower, and they ease into it.

The lights are dim, and the room is dark. The floor creaks beneath them. Music croons in the background. Steve’s hands are wrapped around Bucky, and he’s close. He smells like laundry detergent and cheap cologne, and _Bucky._

They sway together. And it’s right; it’s the rightest thing that could possibly be happening to either of them.

Steve’s heart is beating so fast that he’s sure he’d be dead if he didn’t have the serum. Bucky looks so beautiful, so beautiful and he wants to bend down and kiss him.

So he does.

They kiss, and kiss, and Bucky moans against his mouth. He buries his face in Steve’s chest with a deep breath, and then turns his attentions upward and kisses him again. Their kisses grow more feverish. They move back. Bucky sits on Steve’s desk and undoes his belt with one hand. Steve would help, but he’s too busy trying to get Bucky out of his own pants. He grabs Bucky with a moan.

“Bed,” Bucky manages to call out before Steve kisses him again, rougher and angry that there was a brief moment Steve couldn’t taste him on his lips. It takes a second for the words to register, but when they do Steve nods. He picks Bucky up deftly; there is not even a groan. Bucky laughs. They leave their pants on the living room floor.

Steve carries him to bed and sets him down. Bucky pulls at his shirt, drags him down until they are beside each other. Bucky runs a hand up Steve’s chest, beneath his shirt. Steve attempts to brush his hand beneath Bucky’s, but Bucky pushes his hand away casually as they kiss. Steve tries again, and Bucky wiggles just beyond his touch. Steve gets the message, retreats his hand and focuses elsewhere.

Bucky kisses him harder. They pull Steve’s shirt off. Bucky presses a firm hand into Steve’s side, rolls him closer. Bucky pushes himself against Steve. Steve slips a leg between Bucky’s. They entwine. Steve’s heart is racing. Bucky isn’t the first person he’s been with, but he is the first man, and he’s also _Bucky_ for God’s sake.

“I, uh,” Steve admits, breathless between kisses, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Bucky leans his head back into the covers. He, too, is breathless. “Do you have any Vaseline?” he asks. He looks dreamlike.

Steve swallows and blushes. “I, uh, yeah let me check.”

Steve disentangles himself. He is shaking. Bucky swallows and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He can hear Steve rummaging around in the bathroom. He strokes himself for a moment, but stops. He pushes his hair back and sits up, begins to shuffle off the layers of sweaters he was wearing. He hesitates at the end, decides to leave a black tank top on. In truth, his modesty surprises him, but now that he’s here and it’s happening the thought of Steve running his hands over his scars makes his stomach turn.

The train of thought is stopped by footsteps. Steve enters, holding a jar of Vaseline. His mouth is hanging open. He is electric. It shoots through Bucky like lightening.

Steve joins Bucky on the bed, unsure. Bucky smirks. “Now kiss me a couple of times,” he says. Steve is happy to oblige, nearly falls into him. His hands are strong on Bucky’s back and waist, and his kissing is sloppy but furious. Bucky bites at his bottom lip. “Now use your hand,” he murmurs into Steve’s ear. Steve nods, distracted. He begins to work Bucky. Bucky moans and gasps. “No,” he manages to get out. He ruts against Steve. “Like I’m –“ He heaves a ragged breath.

“Oh,” Steve mumbles, with newfound understanding.

“Vaseline,” Bucky says.

Steve unscrews the cap and puts a little on his fingers. Apprehensive but excited, he enters Bucky slowly with one finger. Bucky shudders. Steve is beautiful above him, absolutely beautiful, like a god damn Greek sculpture. Pleased with Bucky’s response, Steve continues. He sticks another finger in. Bucky moans.

“Now fuck me,” he spits out. His voice is rough, ragged, and it makes Steve’s heart pound. He begins to move his fingers, using his other hand to stroke Bucky. Bucky arcs up into Steve, moves rhythmically. After a while, Steve introduces another finger and Bucky, slick and shaking, fucks himself on Steve’s fingers. Steve licks his lips.

Bucky is close, he can feel it, when Steve retreats. “Wait –“ he starts. His head is swimming, but he tries to lean up to look at Steve with bedroom eyes. He’s halfway there when he feels something hard at his entrance. He grins and falls back, positions his hips to help Steve.

Steve stops. Bucky can feel him pressed against him. It’s driving him insane. “Steve,” he moans.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Steve whispers. His voice is heavy with arousal, but like steel. He’s panting.

“You won’t,” Bucky pleads. “Just fuck me.” There is an exasperated fervor in his voice. It goes straight to Steve’s dick. He takes a deep breath.

Bucky lets out a loud moan as Steve enters him. Steve is big, and Bucky feels like he is being torn apart with pain and pleasure.

Steve stops again. Bucky whines. “I’m just, I’m worried I’m gonna hurt you, Buck,” Steve tells him. His voice is low.

“Steve, the only way you’re gonna hurt me is by not fucking me,” Bucky says, sounding more petulant than he meant it to be.

“But – “Steve starts. Bucky silences him with a kiss. He grabs Steve with his legs and rolls on top of him, kisses him the whole way until Bucky is leaning over Steve, sitting on his lap.

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” he growls into Steve’s ear. Steve nods. There are stars in his eyes.

Steve continues, aided by Bucky, until Bucky is full of him. It’s more than he could have imagined, and he feels completely full, so satisfied that he is like butter in Steve’s hand, completely at his mercy. Steve is sick with pleasure.

Steve begins to move, slow at first and then faster and faster. He guesses at where to place his hands, settles on holding onto Bucky’s hips. Bucky couldn’t care at all. Each thrust brings him closer and leaves him a sweaty, flailing mess. When he can think to, he rolls his hips. Steve moans. His chest and face are flushed. Bucky kisses him rough, wraps his arm around his body and closes the gap between them. They are completely entwined. Bucky can feel Steve against him, so close and so warm. Steve moans and runs his hand down Bucky’s back. They kiss hard, complete, together.

Bucky comes with erratic hips and Steve’s name on his lips. Steve thrusts into him a few more times before coming himself. They fall apart and go back together all night.

\--

There is bright morning sunlight shining across the bedroom, the kind that really only exists when it’s bouncing off of snow. He blinks slowly.

“You know,” he says. “I’m kinda glad that Santa’s still around.” He curls his fingers in Steve’s hair.

“Me too,” Steve mumbles. “He was nice to see my first Christmas back.”

Bucky takes a deep, contented breath. “Any plans today?”

“I was thinking we could order Chinese. There’s a TV station that plays this one movie over and over again that I think you’d like. They reference it a lot in pop culture.” Steve pauses. “I was also thinking that we could have sex a couple of times.”

Bucky barks out a high-pitched laugh. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

“Merry Christmas, Buck.”


	20. interlude ii

Bright lights. Flashes. People.

Steve was right about this. Bucky digs his fingers into the palm of his hand.

A politician reads a prepared statement. Pepper Potts reads a prepared statement. Tony Stark is nowhere to be found. Natasha is not on stage, but she is in the back, hot off a plane from another country. “They don’t want her out there with you,” Steve explains. “She’s not exactly America’s sweetheart right now.”

“And I am?” Bucky asks. He frowns. He’s mad on her behalf.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You kind of are.”

Bucky can’t argue.

Steve reads a prepared statement. He thanks America for their patience and understanding. He tells a small anecdote about growing up in Brooklyn. He throws in some antiquated slang. The crowd chuckles fondly.

All eyes are on him. All eyes have been on him the entire time. He steps up to the microphone. He reads a prepared statement. The room is silent. Bucky trips over his words but course corrects, a minute later and it is over.

The response is loud and immediate. The room leaps to their feet and their voices rise so loud Bucky can’t even begin to hear what they’re saying.

“No questions please,” an aide says into the microphone. Steve’s hands are on Bucky to usher him off-stage.

“Do you remember your past?” Bucky catches. He leans past Steve and the aide to get to the microphone. It’s like a reflex, a need to answer a question or follow a command.

“Most of it,” he says. Steve is still trying to pull him away.

“Do you remember your time as the Winter Soldier?” another reporter calls out. Bucky’s face twists with shock. He stops himself in a panic – he’s blown it, he reacted too violently, everyone will think he’s an unstable wreck – but the crowd does not revolt, instead they silence the reporter with a low, disapproving murmur.

“Who the hell asked that now?” a young correspondent in the front row wonders aloud. Bucky, face etched with bewilderment, catches her eye. She blushes.

“What’s your favorite part of the 21st century?” a loud, clear voice from the back of the room asks.

Bucky answers immediately. “Steve,” he says into the microphone. The aide is trying to pull it away, and Steve’s hands are still firmly on his back. Bucky thinks for a moment, and then grabs the microphone away from the aide. “And Star Wars,” he adds.

The crowd erupts. The aide takes the microphone down. Steve pulls Bucky into the back.

“The joke was a nice touch,” Natasha says. Her face and body are poised, but her eyes are bright.

“What joke?” Bucky asks.

“People love Star Wars,” Steve says from behind him. He sounds flustered, breathless.

“Oh,” Bucky says.

Natasha catches his eye. “You did great.”


	21. there was a time i resigned

On a cloudy afternoon the summer of her sixteenth birthday, Winifred Lancaster is led by hand up the winding steps to the attic of her best friend’s childhood home. It is a small, cramped space, dark and stuffy. There is a single window casting cold, grey light across the room. Cobwebs hang from the rafters.

Her friends giggle and gasp around her. They are alone in the house. The entire county is attending the fair where Winifred will meet George Barnes in two years’ time. “Is this a good idea?” Winifred asks.

Her best friend rolls her eyes. Her name is Jane. She has long blonde hair, and Winifred will never see her again after she elopes. She will die of the Spanish flu and take her bloodline with her. “C’mon Winnie, you’re ruining all the fun!” she says. Jane shakes the dust off of an old quilt and slides a Ouija board out from underneath it. Winifred can hear the town preacher’s words in her head, and see her mother clutching her Bible.

“Where did you get it?” another girl asks. Her dark red hair is braided tightly and wrapped around itself on top of her head. Her name is Delilah.

“My brother sent it from New York,” Jane replies. Her brother has made a name for himself, like his father before him. He will die in a trench beside Steve’s father. The connection will never be realized.

“Do you know how to use it?” is posed. Jane nods. She places it on the floor.

“Everybody sit down,” she says. She is whispering even though there is no need. Everyone sits. “Now place your hands on the planchette.” Four pairs of hands are placed on the planchette. Jane smiles. “Okay, I have some rules. First of all, everyone be polite.” There are giggles. “I’m being serious! Let’s act like ladies.” She sits up. “Second of all, don’t ask stupid questions.” She pauses. “That’s it. Those are my rules.”

Jane takes a deep breath. “Spirits, hear us! If there is anyone listening, this is a safe space, and we would like to talk to you! Spirits, join us!” Her voice is loud and commanding. Winifred feels embarrassed.

“Nothing happened,” someone whispers. Jane shushes them.

“Is there anyone who would like to speak with us?” she asks. There is a moment of stillness. Then, the planchette begins to move.

YES, it says. There is nervous laughter from the crowd.

Jane grins. This is her doing. “What is your name?” she asks. The planchette moves.

NO, it says. She frowns, for show.

“Then what should we call you?”

NOTHING, it spells out. Winifred’s hair stands up on end.

“Are you a good or a bad spirit?” Jane asks.

GOOD, it says.

“Alright,” Jane says. She sounds uneasy, but excited. She is a brilliant actress. “When were you born?”

1901, it says.

“They’re our age!” the girl adjacent to Winifred whispers. Her name is Penelope. Winifred does not know her well. She will die in a car accident in 1967. “Are you a girl or a boy?” she asks.

BOY, it says. There is a ripple of excitement.

“When did you die?” Jane asks.

1901, it says. Winifred gasps.

“He’s just a baby,” she says sadly. Jane frowns. Wheels are turning.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

TALK, it says.

“What do you want to talk about?” Jane asks.

QUESTIONS, it says.

“Do you want us to ask you questions?” another girl asks.

YES, it says.

“About what?” Jane asks.

YOU, it says. Jane sits up. She smirks. Winifred thinks she’s supplying the answers. Winifred wants to go home.

“I’ll start,” she says, sounding very pleased. “Who will I marry?” she asks.

“I thought you said no stupid questions,” Delilah mutters. Jane shoots her a dark glare.

JOHN, it replies. Winifred rolls her eyes.

“That narrows it down,” Delilah says again. Jane huffs.

“Why don’t you do it then?” she asks.

“Fine,” Delilah says. “Will I marry Danny Knowles?” she asks.

NO, it says. Delilah rolls her eyes.

“Jane, you only made it say that because you know I like him,” she grumbles.

“ _I_ didn’t make it say anything,” Jane asserts. She is lying. “Penelope, you’re next.”

Penelope licks her lips. Winifred watches her closely. She is thinking. “Penelope, we don’t have all day,” Jane says. Penelope has longer than all of them. She will die of cancer in 1993.

“How many children will I have?” she asks, finally, making eye contact with Jane the entire time.

3, it says. Penelope smiles.

“Ooh!” she says. “Will I have any daughters?”

“No follow up questions,” Jane says, but the planchette moves to YES. She furrows her brow. _Penelope moved it that time_ , she thinks.

“How many?”

2, it says. Penelope coos. She has never thought of moving the planchette.

“I’ve always wanted to have my own little girls!” she chirps. “Winnie, you’re next,” she whispers. Winifred frowns.

“Go ahead, Winnie,” Delilah says. “Ask.”

Winifred’s arms shake. She can’t think of anything to say. “Will I be happy?” she decides upon.

The planchette moves quickly. NO, it says. Penelope gasps.

“Oh no!” she says. “Why won’t Winnie be happy?”

MAN, it says.

“Who?” Delilah asks. She and Penelope are leaning forward, eyes wild. Jane and Winifred are frowning.

H – U – S – B – A, it starts.

“Jane, stop it,” Winifred says.

“I’m not doing anything!” Jane says. This is the truth.

\- N - D, it finishes.

“Who will she marry?” Delilah chimes in.

LATER, it says.

“That’s no fun,” Delilah says.

“Don’t be rude,” Jane tells her, trying desperately to regain control of the situation.

“Will she have any children?” Penelope asks.

YES, it says.

“How many?” Penelope asks again.

3, it says.

“Any girls?” Delilah chimes in.

YES, it says.

“How many?” Penelope asks.

1, it says.

“Will they be happy?” Winifred asks. Her voice is heavy and pierces the room.

SOME, it says.

“What do you mean?” Penelope asks.

ELDEST, it says.

“They’ll be happy?” Winifred asks.

NO, it says.

“Why not?” she asks again.

WINTER, it says. Winifred frowns. Jane bites her lip.

“Alright,” she says. “Enough about Winnie, what about me!” Her words are planned. She is attempting to come to Winifred’s rescue.

It works. Winifred says nothing for the rest of the afternoon. She walks home in the rain. That night she tells her sister. Beatrice laughs. “Winnie, don’t worry. Ouija boards are scams. Jane’s just trying to trick you. Forget it and whatever you do, don’t tell mother.”

Winifred doesn’t tell her mother. Winifred doesn’t say a word. Winifred falls in love with a boy for his smile. He fucks her in a wheat-field, and she gives birth to a son. “You are mine,” she whispers to her eldest because she can already feel the cold claws of her husband digging into her flesh.

“I think that I would kiss a boy,” her son says to her on a rainy afternoon. Her heart sinks, but not for fear of sin. Beatrice is loved in Chicago. There is a body of a boy in the ground in Michigan.

James picks up the nickname “Bucky”. He brings home a tiny, bleeding boy one sunny morning in 1925. “What’s your name?” Winifred Barnes asks while she gets a cold, wet rag.

“Steve Rogers,” he says. He is thin and sickly. Bucky grins. Winifred cleans up his face and watches her son fall in love.

“Are you going out tonight?” she asks Bucky. It is 1934. She has two months left to live.

He shrugs. “Nah, probably just going over to Steve’s place.” He is in front of the ornate mirror she inherited from the apartment’s previous tenants. He is fixing his hair.

“Come here,” she says. Bucky gives her a look, but obeys. She smiles, pats his shoulders. He’s strong. He’s healthy. He’s handsome. She sees the looks that girls give him. He looks like his father. She smoothes back his hair. “You know that I am proud of you,” she says.

“Ma,” he whines, but he plays the moment over and over again in his head until HYDRA takes it from him.

“What was my mother like?” Bucky asks Steve. The press-conference is three days past. They are lying in bed together. Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair.

Steve thinks. “She was… well, she was a lot like you.”

Bucky scrunches his face. Steve continues. “I only knew her when she was in Brooklyn. She hated Brooklyn, Bucky. I don’t think you realized at the time how much she hated Brooklyn because you liked it so much, but she hated it.”

“She wasn’t from Brooklyn?” Bucky asks.

Steve shakes his head. “No, she was from back West somewhere. I’m not sure. I could probably look it up.”

“No,” Bucky says. “Don’t. Just what you remember.”

“Alright,” Steve replies. “Well. She looked a lot like you. She paced a lot, like you do. She was very quiet. She got sick a lot, but she was very involved. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her, and whoever knew her liked her.”

Steve can’t see his face, but Bucky smiles sadly. “She loved you a lot,” Steve says. “You had siblings that I never met. They were sent away to school. I think that your family lost touch with them. But you were the only one that she had left. She was great to you, Buck.”

Bucky makes a sad, low noise. “I wish that I could remember her,” he says.

“You’ll remember someday,” Steve tells him.

“I hope so,” Bucky murmurs. In the past, Winifred thinks of a grey afternoon while she watches her son walk away.


	22. resigned myself to a lonely climb

**Various news headlines, December 26 th**

“JAMES BARNES, WAR HERO, COMES HOME”

**Savejamesbarnes.com, 8:46, December 28 th**

“We want to welcome Sgt. James Barnes to the 21st century the right way, and we want you to help! Just submit a picture or video of yourself wishing Barnes a happy New Year! Let him know that we support him, and we’re happy to have him back!”

**Reddit, 14:17, December 30 th**

“[AMA Request] Sgt. James Barnes” The following is the content of the post.

“My 5 Questions:

  1.        How much of your past do you remember?
  2.        How do you like the 21st century?
  3.        What’s your favorite Star Wars movie? Please don’t say the prequels.
  4.        How do you feel about how you were remembered, and how do you think that will change?
  5.        Did you start to remember your past during the Battle over the Potomac?”



Top rated comments: “Dude yes I would love to see this!” “You have a better chance of getting Cap to do an AMA, Barnes is far from stable.”

“Could he even work the internet?”   
                “He’s a master assassin, I’m sure he could figure out reddit.”   
                                “I don’t know, dude, he’s also like 100 years old. My dad’s 60 and he can’t even open up Chrome without getting a virus.”

**Tumblr, 22:58, December 30 th**

[A gifset of the press conference. In the first gif, a reporter off-screen is asking “What’s your favorite part of the 21st century?” In the second gif, Bucky is replying “Steve.” Underneath the gif is the caption, italicized “And Star Wars.”] This is not the original comment, but it is gaining notes: “Okay, so I’m not sure how familiar Tumblr is with the Howling Commando biographer controversies, but there is a pretty big faction of academia that think Bucky was probably gay, or at least bi. In the mid-90s a Howling Commandos biographer stated that, in his scholarly opinion, Barnes was probably gay for Cap. We know that Cap has pledged public support for gay rights, which is pretty revolutionary for a guy who was born before WWI ended. I’m not saying that they’re together, but I am saying that there is some evidence that, in the past, they were in a relationship.” The post has 20,678 notes.

Top-rated comments: “lmao ofc tumblr has to make everything gay smh leave the guy alone”, “OMG calling it now ship name is stucky you heard it here first folks”

\--

There’s a coffee shop at the end of the street, red brick and built in the 1920s. It’s a mom and pop store, established 2006 with a horrible coffee-related pun for a name. Bucky’s been watching it for weeks, studying the incoming and outgoing trends of customers, peak times, sales, the personal habits of workers on the shift. Thursday nights are absurdly busy for no apparent reason. The assistant manager makes free drinks for his friends. After hours, the owner and anyone working a late shift go out back and smoke a bowl of marijuana before closing the store. This is a reconnaissance mission.

He finally enters on a gloomy Wednesday afternoon, days after the press conference. There are three customers, two male and one female. They are scattered throughout the store at tables. One is reading a book. The other two are on their phones. There are two people working, one male and one female. The male is the assistant manager. He has a tattoo of a scorpion on his right arm. The female is new. Her customer service skills are stellar, but she is still learning the menu. Bucky takes a deep breath.

And he orders without a hitch. If they recognize him, they do not say anything. He takes his coffee black because it is easy to do so; he sits in the window seat for thirty minutes and then leaves silently. He returns the next day, and the day after that.

There are other places, too, like the used record shop a half a block away from the nondescript tan building his ex-SHIELD therapist practices from, or the chain convenience store three blocks down. They unravel themselves for him, open their legs like some long-lost lover, and soon there is a map in his head superimposed upon the map of the city that _they_ placed there. He had done the same before, in the past. He could reach back and pluck moments, compare them and turn them over again and again, then let them recede.

He returns to the apartment later than he had planned. It is quiet. He matches the volume with his own movements, sneaks in silently. He can see the outline of Steve sitting at his desk in the living room, hunched over and completely still. Bucky panics for a moment. “Steve?” he calls out.

Steve snaps up. “Hey, Buck,” he says. “Where were you?”

“Around,” Bucky says. He does not mean for it to be sly or mysterious, it is simply the truth. He has been around. Steve shows no immediate reaction, but something sad passes quickly across his face. “What were you doing?” Bucky asks.

“Nothing,” Steve says. And he’s right. There is nothing, Bucky realizes, as he catches Steve sit in silence again. There is the ghost of an imprint on his face, a slight downturn to his lips. A coldness to his actions that did not exist in Brooklyn, a listlessness to his motions on a day to day basis. Bucky narrows his eyes. Reconnaissance.

“You know, you don’t go out much,” Bucky says, days later.

“Never did,” Steve tells him. Bucky raises an eyebrow. That’s a lie. There was little nightlife for Steve in Brooklyn, but he vacated their apartment often and with ease. Bucky could name off more places Steve that had haunted than he had fingers, and that was with admittedly lacking memory reserves.

But Steve does leave sometimes, and Steve does smile. Bucky circles him at his desk. “Bucky,” Steve says. His voice is stern, but there is no force or negativity behind it.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. He retracts his steps and moves back. “Hey, I bought a record today,” he continues.

“You did?” Steve asks. “Where?”

“Used record store a few blocks away. I was looking to see if I recognized anything.”

“Did you?” Steve’s gaze is on the edge of excited. He is smiling, but there is an exasperated melancholia beneath his movements. It presses on Bucky like a weight, but he gives a sheepish grin. Soon, the music fills their apartment. Bucky takes Steve by the hand, and by the time the record starts to skip they are both in a languid, messy heap curled around each other. Bucky runs his hand along the curves of Steve’s body. No more melancholia.

In the morning, the bed is empty save for him. Steve is on a long run. The apartment is lonely without him. Bucky takes a walk.

The Smithsonian exhibit is still up. It had been shut down briefly, lines had been changed and facts had been updated. Bucky comes in from the cold with a thousand others. They pulse around him. He stands dead-center, staring at his face on the wall. His lip twitches. His heart rate increases. He swallows a sob.

_That’s me_ , he thinks.


	23. but thinking this was a bad sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I missed a day! Yesterday was my birthday and alas, I partied a little too hard. I'll post another chapter in a few hours to make up for it.

“You got coffee?” Steve asks. He’s seated at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of him.

“Yeah. There’s a place down the street I like,” Bucky says.

“That’s fantastic. Thank you.” Steve is genuine, but there is something sad in his voice. Bucky swells with pride and takes a seat adjacent. “Bucky, this is delicious. Is this what you’ve been up to when you go out?” Steve asks. His tone is friendly, but there is something misgiving.

“Yeah, mostly,” Bucky replies. Steve raises an eyebrow and offers a smile. His eyes give him away.

“Are you alright?” Bucky asks.

Steve chuckles to himself. “Yeah, Buck, I’m fine. It’s just you were always a coffee drinker. Before you came back, I wondered how you would feel about all of the weird stuff they do with coffee now.”

It’s not the answer that he was expecting. Bucky grins. “Yeah, and what was your verdict?” he asks.

Steve narrows his eyes. “Too heavy on the sugar.”

Bucky laughs. “I don’t know Steve; I think I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

“Of course,” Steve says. There’s a moment of silence between the two of them. “You remember that I have to go the fundraiser tonight, right?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Will you be okay here?”

Bucky snorts. “Steve, of course I’ll be fine.”

Steve pauses for a moment. “I know you will,” he says. He sounds forlorn. There is something Bucky is missing. He leans forward, furrows his eyebrows. “I’ll probably be texting you. It’s going to be boring.”

“Yeah?” Bucky mumbles, more of a filler than an actual inquiry. He is too focused on the bags beneath Steve’s eyes.

“Probably. I mean, great for the cause and all, but I usually end up sleeping through these things,” Steve admits. It’s confessed with humor, but there’s something underneath it. Bucky licks his lips.

“Come home soon, will ya?” Bucky tells him.

“Bucky, I’m not gone yet,” Steve says. Bucky nods but reaches forward and grabs Steve’s arm. He trails gentle fingers along Steve’s wrist. They carve out the space together.

“I’ll be back by two,” Steve tells him later, fixing his tie in the mirror.

Bucky leans against the door frame. “Look at you,” he says. “Clean up so nice.”

Steve shoots him a winning smile. “You always cleaned up nicer,” he says. Bucky snorts.

“Love ya, punk,” he murmurs as Steve leaves. He regrets not kissing him.

The apartment is his for the night. He makes tea and puts on the record he brought. He settles in at Steve’s desk. He turns on the computer. He deliberates, takes a sip of the tea and then googles “Steve Rogers”.

Wikipedia is his first choice because it is the first option. He sneers at the misinformation in the ‘Early Life’ section, avoids clicking on the link to his own page, and keeps scrolling.

He stops at New York. Bucky’s eyes are drawn to Steve’s name as it appears and reappears, the words surrounding it making a whole new sort of sick, sad sense. Steve’s told him about New York, before, when he was still too much a shell to soak it up. _They_ told him about New York, but it was meaningless to him.

Bucky stands up and paces. Steve going toe to toe with Nazis was bad, but they managed. Steve going toe to toe with the Winter Soldier was horrific, and the thought makes Bucky’s heart seize up, fills him with anxiety. Steve going to toe to with aliens – big, monstrous aliens – is unreal. In the past, Bucky pulls Steve away from a fight in the alleyway. In the present, Bucky chews on his nails. The singer croons on behind him.

Bucky returns to the computer, but does not sit. There is a link to viral video from New York, a twelve second clip of Steve saving a civilian’s life recorded on an iPhone. Bucky watches it four times. Beside the video are other suggestions, parts of Captain America documentaries and television appearances. He chooses one at random.

It’s a talk show, daytime. The hosts are male and female, but it doesn’t matter, they are the same overly produced carbon-copies that appear on every network. Steve is dressed fashionably, hair-slicked back. The women in the audience squeal. Bucky rolls his eyes, but he understands – his heart flutters, too.

They all barrage him with useless garbage. He answers. They eat it up. He is playing a role. He spews empty words. His answers are strained when they get too close to the truth. They treat him like a novelty toy. Bucky digs his fingernails into the wood of the chair.

“Alright,” a hostess says. She is blonde, tanned, older. She laughs like a clear bell, repositions herself and looks back at a card. “Cap, what is the number one thing that you miss from the 1940s?” she asks.

Steve stops for a moment. Bucky is sure he will answer with some useless fluff. Steve blinks once, looks at the glass of water on the table next to him, and then back to her. “Bucky Barnes,” he says. Bucky chokes.

The audience ‘aww’s. The hostess nods sadly. Bucky closes the screen.

Steve woke up in 2011. He went to sleep two weeks after Bucky fell. Bucky does the math.

“I thought you were dead,” he hears Steve say, somewhere.

The wound was still fresh, Bucky thinks. He shifts his gaze to the cabinet filled with sketchbooks. They are mostly from the past – Bucky can recognize them, even as worn and carved as they are. There are three that do not bare the markings of age.

The first has a warm leather brown for a cover. It’s expensive, well-made. On the first page “November 2011 – August 2012” is written. Bucky leafs through.

It begins with brief sketches, lines, bits of buildings or faces. There is nothing complete or discernable. The first finished drawing is of a SHIELD agent that Bucky does not recognize. Steve dated it 12/07/11. Bucky continues to page through it. The first sketch that he appears in, indirectly, is one dated a few days before Christmas. It is of his childhood apartment. There is a woman sitting down at a desk. Bucky assumes that it is his mother. He studies her, but can think of nothing. The second sketch that he appears in is dated early January. It is a cartoon. Bucky is holding a pair of glasses shaped to say “2012”. There is a speech bubble above his head. It says “What the hell”. He smiles.

There are more cartoons littered throughout the pages. They are small, maybe only a fraction of the page, but they are enough. If he tries, Bucky can trace Steve’s discovery of the 21st century through them. They come regularly until May 3rd, 2012.

There is a gap in dates that picks back up in June, and then the pages are completed furiously. Bucky examines them. Caricatures of talk show hosts. Illustrations of the Chitauri. A mean spirited doodle of Tony Stark. A portrait of Natasha, looking very refined. A self-portrait of a monkey wearing the Captain America uniform. A sketch of the street their apartment was on. The last drawing in the sketchbook is of a kid Bucky assumes to be himself, wearing modern clothing. He has a big, stupid grin.

The second sketchbook is less expensive, with a navy blue cover. The inside cover dates is August 2012 – December 2013. The first sketch is of Peggy in her red dress. The second is of a modern luxury car. That winter is peppered with Bucky. It makes his chest ache. He appears on every page. Sometimes there are captions. “Bucky + the election” is his favorite; it is written under a doodle of himself with a very sour face.

He begins to disappear as the months turn warmer. Peggy makes more appearance. Natasha makes more appearances. Nick Fury makes a few memorable ones. Bucky is always there.

The clock strikes midnight. Bucky gathers his things, puts them away. He has already seen the third sketchbook. He turns off the radio. He climbs into bed. He does not sleep.

Steve stumbles home at 2:13 AM. He moves quietly through the apartment, but Bucky is tuned to him. At 2:33 AM, he makes it into the bedroom. Bucky stays completely still.

“How was the fundraiser?” he asks. Steve jumps a little.

“Boring,” he replies.

“You didn’t text me,” Bucky says.

“I’m sorry,” Steve tells him. “I didn’t get the chance to.”

“They asked about me,” Bucky murmurs.

“Always,” Steve says. He rolls into bed.

Bucky slings his arm over Steve and pulls him close. “Hey,” Steve whispers. It’s a gentle greeting. Bucky squeezes him to his chest. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Bucky tells him. He trails his thumb across Steve’s palm. “You know I’m here,” he says.

“Yeah, you are,” Steve tells him. Bucky frowns.

“No. _I_ ’m here,” he repeats. “For you.”

Steve rolls to face him. “I know you are,” he says. He studies Bucky’s face.

Bucky studies him back. “Do you?” he asks. Steve furrows his brow. Bucky runs a rough hand through Steve’s hair and leaves his hand to lie on Steve’s neck. He smells like expensive cologne. “G’night, Stevie,” he says.

“Night, Buck,” Steve replies. He snakes an arm around Bucky’s waist. Down the hallway, the heater rattles.

In the morning, Bucky wakes up to an empty bed. The clock says 6:45 AM. It is still dark out. He can smell coffee in the kitchen.

“Did you sleep?” Bucky asks. Steve’s hair is wet from the shower. His running shoes are by the door.

“Of course,” Steve says. “Did you?”

Bucky leans against the door frame. “What time did you get up?”

Steve rubs his face with his hand. “Dunno. Couple of hours ago?”

“You need to sleep more,” Bucky says. He wraps his arm around his body.

Steve laughs. “Bucky, I sleep just fine. I don’t need as much as I did before.”

Bucky cocks his head. “I’m worried about you.”

Steve smiles. “You always have been,” he says. His words are warm. “Hey, did you go through my sketchbooks last night?”

Bucky freezes. “Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that it would bother you.”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.” There is ice between them, a thin layer but Bucky can feel it.

He looks at the floor for a moment. “Why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Bucky, nothing is bothering me.” Steve’s voice is harder, more exasperated. He is turned away, pouring coffee into two mugs.

“Steve, I can read you like a book, but I can’t see into your head. I’m not stupid. Just tell me what’s wrong.” Bucky is clearer, uses more force when he speaks.

Steve’s back stiffens, and Bucky digs his fingers into his ribcage. “Bucky,” he says, turning on his heel. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not, Steve. I know you, and you are not fine.”

Steve sighs. “Look, Bucky, no offense but I’m not exactly the guy you remember from Brooklyn.” It’s a low blow. Bucky raises his eyebrows. Steve bites his lip and panics. “Bucky, I’m sorry –“

Bucky holds his hand out. “Steve, it’s fine. You’re right. I’m not the guy that you remember either. We’re both very different people, and we’re living in this wacko universe where you’re a superhero and I’m a supervillain, and why are you smiling?”

Steve smiles wider. “It’s – you’re getting so much better.” Bucky frowns and straightens up. “And you’re not a supervillain, Buck.”

Bucky fixes a steady glare on his friend. “Don’t change the subject Steve, this is about you.”

Steve frowns. His voice is quiet. “Look, is this because of the sketchbooks? Because –“

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s not because of the sketchbooks. It’s about the way that you’ve been acting since the press conference.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Bucky, I’ve been acting like me. Nothing has changed.”

“Well then maybe I’m just noticing it, but Steve you are not –“

“Not what?”

Bucky swallows. “Happy.”

Steve snorts. He leans against the counter-top. His lip twitches. He is playing devil’s advocate. “Do you really want to know what’s been bothering me?”

“Yes, Steve!”

“I’m being selfish,” he says. His gaze is fixed on Bucky’s face.

“Selfish about what?” Bucky asks.

“You.” Bucky laughs. “I’m being serious,” Steve continues. “I’m being a real jerk about this, Bucky.”

“About what?” Bucky asks.

Steve straightens up. “You’re getting better. You’re getting way better than I had ever dreamed you would get. You’re more independent. I don’t know where you are half of the time. You’re always out. You found that coffee place, and that record store. You know more about the 21st century than I do. And most of the time you’re so _you_ that I can’t believe it.”

Bucky swallows. “Isn’t that a good thing?” he asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah, Buck, it is. It’s the best thing in the world, but it scares me.”

Bucky frowns, his face caught between disbelief and sadness. “What are you afraid of?”

“Honestly?” Steve asks. He offers a low half-smile and bites his cheek. “I’m afraid that you’re gonna leave me.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, drawing out each syllable.

“I know, Buck.” Steve uncrosses his arms. He gives Bucky a forlorn look and takes a deep breath before turning away. He pours milk in his coffee. The apartment is silent. The sun is beginning to rise; it spills reds and pinks across the city. Outside, a car starts. Steve spoon clinks against the side of his glass.

“What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks. His voice is delicate, slow and dripping with misery.

“Bucky,” Steve says. He stops stirring, lays the spoon down on its side. “I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

Bucky blinks. “I want to make you happy.”

“Bucky, I want you to do what makes you happy.”

Bucky picks at the paint on the doorframe. “I don’t know what that is.”

“You have a great start, Buck, you do. And I think that part of the fun is finding out.”

Bucky thinks. “What makes you happy?”

Steve frowns. “I don’t know.”

“Me?” Bucky offers.

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, you. And Sam.”

“And Nat?”

“And Natasha.”

Bucky chews on his lip. “And drawing?”

Steve nods. “Sometimes.”

Bucky pauses. “I’m not gonna leave you,” he says.

Steve frowns. “Bucky, look –“

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not, though. Not again.”

“Bucky, I’m being –“

“No,” Bucky says with a shrug. “If I were you – if you were me – I would be worried to. But you don’t gotta be, Steve. Look, I’ve loved you since we were kids, probably. I didn’t figure it out until later, but you were always so phenomenal, Stevie. Just so much more than I could ever hope to have. You were the only guy that ever gave a shit about me, you know?”

“Buck-“

Bucky puts his arm out. “Hey, stop trying to cut me off. Do you know how hard it is to get this out?” He points to his head. “Be careful or I’ll spill my heart out to you in Russian or something. I gotta concentrate here.” Steve nods. “What I’m trying to say here is that you don’t need to worry about me going anywhere, no matter what happens. The worst possible thing has already happened to me and I still loved you through I;, I’ll still love you if I decide to be a ‘hipster’ or pierce my nose or something.”

Steve smiles. His lip trembles, but he smiles. “Thanks, Buck,” he says.

Bucky frowns. “Don’t ‘thanks, Buck’ me, I expect a full ‘thank you, Bucky’.”

Steve smiles wider. His voice is heavy with misery, but he manages to say “Thank you, James Buchanan Barnes.” with good humor. Bucky smiles. Steve takes a deep breath. “Hey, you said – before you said that you broke it off with Ruth because you realized you were in love with someone else.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I think I figured it out the morning after you moved in. But I don’t really remember being a teenager so there’s a margin of error.” Steve smiles and raises an eyebrow. “What?” Bucky asks.

“It’s nothing, Bucky,” he says.

“No, tell me what it is.”

Steve’s lips are upturned, but he’s not fully smiling. He takes another deep breath and casts his gaze toward the ceiling. “I just – I always thought that – I mean, if I thought about it, I always thought that you realized it during the war.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. “Why during the war?”

Steve bites his lip and gestures to himself. Bucky sneers. “Who do you think I am?” he asks.

Steve shrugs. “I’m not stupid Bucky; I know what I looked like.”

“Do you really think I’m that superficial?”

Steve considers. “A little bit, yeah.”

Bucky laughs darkly. “Steve, did you really think that?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, I did.”

Bucky cracks a sad smile. “Steve, when I said that girls were crazy for not liking you, I wasn’t just being nice. You were goddamn beautiful; you were like the fucking sun. Still are, but you were then too.”

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve says. He smiles and sighs.

Bucky shakes his head. “Jesus, Stevie,” he says, but there is humor in his voice.

“I know, I know,” Steve murmurs. He pauses for a moment. “Thank you, Bucky.”

Bucky frowns. “For what?”

“Listening to me?” Steve offers. He shrugs.

Bucky leans against the wall. “I’m here for you. I told you that.”

Steve nods. “I know.”

“I mean, I know that I don’t have a stellar track record.” He chews on his lip. “I really fucked up trying to help you after Peggy’s funeral.”

Steve shakes his head. “Bucky, look –“

“No, Steve, I was a dick. I knew better, but I just sort of… said it anyway.” He gives Steve a forlorn look. “But I feel like I can actually help now, and I want to. God knows you took care of me enough.”

Steve offers a sad smile. “You took care of me my entire life, Bucky.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, and I plan on doing it again.” He scratches his face absent-mindedly. “I was reading about New York last night and Jesus Christ, Steve.”

Steve laughs. It’s clear, but bitter. “I know. Although, to be honest, I feel like out of all of us, besides Thor, I was the one best prepared for it. I mean, aliens were about as weird as everything else.”

Bucky chuckles, makes a motion with his arm. “Those fuckers were huge, Steve.”

Steve raises his eyebrows and nods. “Most of the battle was actually just containment.”

“You hadn’t been awake for very long,” Bucky says. It’s more of a statement than anything.

“No, I hadn’t.”

Bucky chews on his lip. “How long had I been gone? To you, I mean.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Less than a year,” he says.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Did you ever, ya know, see anybody? Like counseling?”

Steve nods. “For a little while, they made me. But it wasn’t very useful.”

Bucky picks at the hem of his shirt. “Do you think, maybe, it would help if you tried again?”

Steve smiles. “Bucky, are you telling me that I need to see a shrink?”

Bucky shrugs. “Helped me,” he says.

Steve thinks for a moment. “Maybe I’ll look into it.” His words are genuine. The sun is up.

They go back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to tumblr user [johnymarr](http://johnymarr.tumblr.com) for being my loyal beta, and for contributing a lot to this chapter and many others. ;)


	24. all aboard flight 919 departing on time

The record store is tiny and cluttered, filled wall to wall with shelves and stands. The air is musty and abnormally thick, save for a two-foot radius around the cash register where a pine-scented car air freshener hangs around the neck of a gaudy action figure of a musician Bucky does not recognize. The floor is covered with pale blue carpeting, and any free space on the wall is hidden beneath a band poster.

The man behind the counter, the owner, recognizes Bucky but doesn’t say anything. He is kind, courteous. Bucky can tell that he’s nervous, but he composes himself. His arms are covered in tattoos, and his eyes are hidden behind glasses. “If you liked that,” he says, referring to Bucky’s last purchase, “You might like this.” Bucky is all ears and takes home a stack of CDs. “Free of charge,” the man says. “Keep what you like, bring back what you don’t.”

“Steve, are you _hearing_ what they are doing?” Bucky asks later that night. He is holding a CD case in his hand, turning it over and over again while it’s music plays over the speaker.

Steve sketches. “If you like it, you should check out what else the band has done,” he says. Bucky smiles to himself, keeps all of the CDs, and returns for more.

“Steve, you read,” Bucky says on a cold evening a few days later. He is standing in front of the bookshelf.

“I’ve been known to,” Steve says from the couch. Bucky rocks back on his heels.

“Do you, uh, recommend anything?” he asks.

Steve sits up and turns around to face Bucky. “You want a book recommendation?” He raises an eyebrow.

Bucky frowns. “Look, I know wasn’t the most avid reader in Brooklyn, but I’m trying to expand my horizons here.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, Bucky, that’s great.” He jumps up off of the couch and moves to stand beside his friend. It takes him approximately twenty seconds to pull a stack of books a foot high off of the shelf. “First four are my favorites, the rest are considered classics.”

“Twentieth century classics or like our classics?” Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs. “A mix of both.”

Hours later, Steve sleeps fitfully while Bucky reads on the couch. He’s three books down (he briefly wonders if it’s a side effect of whatever HYDRA did to him) when he finds a list in between the pages of a culturally significant novel from the 1950s. “Top 100 Movies of the Past 100 Years” it says. Some are crossed off. Most aren’t.

“What’s this?” he asks Steve when Steve wakes up, which is nowhere near the morning.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Steve asks, taking a long look at the list.

“No, I was reading. What is that?”

Steve scratches his neck. “When I came back, someone gave that to me. I got through some of them, but then New York happened.”

“Were they good?” Bucky asks.

“They were interesting. They certainly weren’t bad.” Steve starts coffee and puts on his running clothes. He ruffles Bucky’s hair fondly before he leaves. By the time he gets back, Bucky has a stack of DVDS next to the stack of books. Steve takes a shower and makes popcorn.

Sam drops by in the middle of movie three to find the two of them sprawled on the couch together. “Oh my god,” he says with a smile. “Are you guys watching what I think you’re watching?”

Bucky is too transfixed by the screen to reply. Steve nods, turns to get up and welcome Sam into the apartment. Sam stops him with a hand wave. “Sit back down, this is my favorite part.” He takes a seat on the lounge chair and stays there for three more movies.

“Steve,” Bucky says the next morning while nibbling on a piece of toast. “You know that guy from the movie last night?”

Steve makes eggs. “You’re gonna have to narrow it down, Buck.”

“The last movie we watched before Sam left,” Bucky clarifies. His eyes are bright and clear. His motions are animated. He’s alive.

Steve chuckles. “The white guy with the goofy eyes?”

“Yeah, he’s got a movie that’s still playing at the theatre. You doin’ anything today?”

Steve grabs two plates. “Bucky, are you asking me on a date?” He is smiling.

Bucky blinks, considers. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”

“The answer is no, by the way,” Steve tells him as a drops a plate full of eggs at the table in front of Bucky.

“No?” Bucky repeats, furrowing his eyebrows.

“No, I’m not doing anything today. Yes, I would like to go on a date with you.” Bucky brightens up. Steve takes a seat at the table across from him.

“I used to be good at dates,” Bucky says with a mouth full of food.

“Bucky, you were the best at dates,” Steve replies with a fond smile. There are about three hundred snarky comments about Bucky’s table manners flying through Steve’s head, and he takes a moment to quietly enjoy them by himself.

Bucky pauses, looks up with concern. “Steve, I don’t really know how to be good at dates anymore.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says leaning back in his chair. “I’m easily impressed.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Do I have to dress up?” he asks.

Steve shrugs. “If you want to.”

“Are you gonna dress up?”

“I’m not going in my pajamas.”

Bucky nods. His eyes are focused at Steve’s cup of coffee. He drags them up to Steve’s face. “I’ll pick you up at two,” he says.

“Matinee showing?” Steve clarifies.

Bucky nods and leaves the table. He spends the next three hours in the bathroom. Steve would be worried, but he can hear noises – the clinking of metal against porcelain, the sound of shower being turned off and on. It’s calming. It’s familiar. It’s Brooklyn, 1941. Steve reads a newspaper at the kitchen table while Bucky gets ready for a date. The radio is on. The oldies station is playing a Frank Sinatra song. It’s _far_ from Steve’s favorite, but it ties the moment together.

Around one ‘o’clock Steve knocks on the bathroom door. “Bucky, you alright in there?” he asks.

“Jesus, Stevie,” is the reply. “Give a guy a break; it takes time to look good.”

“With the amount of time you’ve spent in there, if I don’t faint like a schoolgirl when I see you I am going to consider myself cheated,” Steve replies.

“Shoo,” Buck says. Steve’s heart swells with happiness.

He skips the shower, throws on a fresh pair of clothes, and absent-mindedly doodles while he waits for two to roll around. By the time Bucky opens the door his doodle has turned into a full-page illustration of a cartoon owl.

“Come by to pick me up?” Steve asks without looking. He puts his pencils away, turns to face Bucky and lets his jaw drop.

Bucky is wearing Steve’s clothes. They’re a bit big on him, but he makes do. He looks stylish, hip, clean-cut. His hair is trimmed and pushed back. He shaved. He’s dressed in dark colors, but they’re coordinated. He looks polished, slick and dangerous. Steve’s mouth runs dry. His fingers twitch.

“You clean up nice,” he says.

Bucky flashes a smile. “You clean up better.”

Steve laughs nervously. “Are you taking me out or what?” he asks.

“C’mon Stevie,” Bucky says. “Don’t wanna miss the show.”

They don sunglasses. They do not touch as they walk, but they stay close to each other. The world parts for them. The day is cold and dead, the theatre even moreseo dead but it’s so warm that Steve takes off his sweater immediately as he steps inside. Bucky finds it cozy.

The girl working the ticket office recognizes Steve. Her hands shake when she hands Bucky the tickets. She murmurs a quiet “Thank you,” as they walk away. She thinks that they can’t hear her and mutters “Fuck,” to herself when they’re out of earshot. Steve can pick it up anyway.

They buy popcorn. It’s all Steve’s money, but Bucky makes a show of paying for it. “Damn,” he says to Steve while the gawky kid working the concession gets their drinks. “This is way more expensive than I remember.”

Steve nods. “The prices are outrageous. I don’t think this is an inflation issue, either.”

“Should’ve asked for the senior discount,” Bucky says with a smirk. “Do people still smuggle in popcorn?”

Steve shrugs. “I know for a fact Natasha smuggles in popcorn.”

Bucky shakes his head. “We are smuggling in popcorn next time,” he says. The gawky kid hands them their drinks. If he recognizes either of them he makes no indication.

They take their things and enter the first theatre on the right. It’s massive, dark, and empty. They choose seats in the middle. The movie starts. No one else comes in. They share a conspiratorial look and unwind. Bucky deflates in his chair, puts one foot on the empty seat next to him and the other on the empty seat in front of him. He presses the back of his head against Steve’s shoulder. Steve leans back, puts both feet up in front of him. He moves to run his hand through Bucky’s hair, but Bucky stops him.

“I spent forty minutes on this Steve; if you touch my hair I will not be the only guy with one arm in this relationship,” he says, but he entwines his hand with Steve’s instead. Steve freezes momentarily – the thought of holding hands with Bucky in public, even if they are alone, is a foreign concept to him. He can feel himself stop; quickly imagines have the snot beaten out of him in the back of some alleyway for loving who he wants to love. Bucky presses his thumb into the center of Steve’s palm.

_Things are different now_ , he thinks. Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand.

They spend the next two and a half hours commenting loudly on the film. They laugh, and wheeze, and talk to the characters. There is a running commentary. The occasional usher walks away with a smile. In the dark, there is no recognition. Two guys are watching a movie in an empty theater and having the time of their lives. The best jokes the ushers catch are repeated around the concession stand while the employees wait for the evening rush to kick in.

By the time the movie lets out, customers are beginning to flutter into the theatre. They are few and far between, but they dot the lobby.

“I have to use the bathroom,” Steve says. “Will you be okay to wait?” Bucky nods, leans against the rich wallpaper. The shadows act as a cover. _Old habits_ , Bucky entertains.

A woman is rushing down the hallway. He would think nothing of it, but there is telltale fear in her movements. Her pace is brisk and her eyes are set on the bright light of lobby. A man twice her size is on her heels.

“Look,” he says. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just joking. It was supposed to be a compliment; pretty girls like you shouldn’t be going to movies alone.”

“Oh my god,” she says, her voice exasperated. “Are you seriously following me?”

“Just come back and watch the movie, I promise me and my buddies’ll leave you alone.”

“Please stop following me,” she says. She passes Bucky, only a few feet to safety. His fingers twitch. He steps out of the gloom and grabs the man with his hand.

“She said leave her alone,” Bucky growls to him. The man freezes. The woman gives him a bewildered look. There is a hint of recognition, but she does not follow through on it. Now that the man has stopped, she breaks into a light jog and disappears out the door.

The man laughs nervously. “Hey, it’s cool,” he says. “She’s actually a friend of mine.”

“Didn’t look like it,” Bucky replies. His voice is like steel. He tightens his grip. The man winces.

“Hey, just let me go, man. It’s alright, it’s just a misunderstanding.” The man is babbling. Bucky pushes him against the wall, closes the space between them.

“Bucky.” Bucky turns. Steve’s voice is cold, his eyes are hard. The man’s mouth hangs open. “Let him go,” Steve commands. Bucky meets Steve’s eyes and tightens his grip. The man makes a small cry, and Bucky pulls him out of the shadows, let’s go and throws him away. The man nearly hits the ground, but recovers and stays on his feet. He gives the two a frightened look and scrambles back to his theatre.

“Bucky, what the hell was that?” Steve asks. He is staring at Bucky intensely. Bucky shakes.

“Steve, you have no idea what just happened –“ he begins.

“What just happened?” Steve cuts him off.

“He was chasing some girl; he and his friends were harassing her in the theatre. I caught him and she ran off!” Bucky explains. He swallows hard. “You would have done the same exact thing,” he growls.

Steve bites his lip. “Bucky, it’s not about that. You can’t just do things like that in public –“

“You did,” Bucky says. His jaw is set. “All the time.”

Steve huffs. Bucky’s right, he knows he is. “Bucky, you’re on a very short leash. If something happens –“

“Whose leash is it, Steve?” Bucky asks. “Fury’s or yours?”

Steve swallows. “Bucky –“ he begins, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Leave it, Steve,” he says. He takes a step backward. “Go back home. I’ll see you later.” He gives Steve a final, withering look before stalking off.

“Bucky!” Steve calls.

“Don’t worry!” Bucky calls back. “I’m not gonna do anything stupid,” he finishes with a bitter edge.

Steve feels very cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters, one day! Good night guys, peace out, thank you for reading. See you tomorrow. ✌


	25. said your weak and frail heart

He leaves the theatre in a hurry, shadows the steps the woman ran out before him took, and finds himself up and down the winding streets of an unfamiliar neighborhood. The map in his head is on standby. He cannot turn it off, but he does ignore it. He walks, spins, scurries at a pace that is too quick for the involuntary calculations to catch up. It’s his head, and he knows how to mix the signals.

The air is cold, and it grows even colder as the streets get darker. Bucky wraps his jacket around his body. He can catch vague bits of arguments and shouting matches from within the walls of the apartments he passes. Before it was background noise, a buzzing nothing at the outskirts of the awareness. Now every word is sharp, and he pounds his feet into the pavement as he walks.

_Steve doesn’t trust me_ , he thinks.

_Would you trust you?_ he thinks.

He rounds a corner too fast. His foot catches in the legs of a man draped in blankets and huddled on the ground. Bucky is on autopilot, his body begin to twist in an attempt to save grace and balance, but he reaches out with an arm that he no longer has and hits the pavement very hard. His hand scraps against the rough, cold cement, and he can hear his jaw click as it lands.

“I am so sorry –“ the man begins, but Bucky does not stay to listen. It is not his fault. He climbs to his feet and stalks off. He can hear the man babbling as he leaves. His hand stings, and his jaw aches.

There are shadows of the Great Depression in 2014. How he had not noticed them before makes his blood boil. They are far from ornamentation; they are a central fixture. He can hear the bland, standard Midwest pronunciation from the painted people on TV. Economic despair is an antiquity, a historical phenomenon. It is the implication behind every question that they asked Steve about the past, the lie that they attempted to buy and sell despite the amount of human suffering that contradicted it. It claws into the back of Bucky’s head.

He follows a familiar street and ends up at the café. There is an hour to closing time, and the store is dead. The assistant manager is working. He is alone, cleaning some machine and humming along to the music that plays quietly over the speakers. Bucky breaks the tranquility.

“Hey man.” The assistant manager nods nonchalantly in Bucky’s direction. “The usual?” he asks.

Bucky gives a gruff nod and watches the man work. His fingers are skilled; his wrists are thin but strong. He has dirty blonde hair tied in a ponytail. When he turns, Bucky can see the snaking pattern of some other tattoo creeping down the back of the man’s neck and further below.

_Steve would have done the exact same thing_ , he thinks. It has a repetition to it. The man finishes making his drink, and Bucky realizes that he’s not mad at Steve at all.

“On the house,” the man says with an easy smile, the kind that came to Bucky _toujours_ once upon a time forever ago.

Bucky forces a small smile back. The wound on his jaw twitches when he does, and the smile turns into a scowl when he realizes that he should really survey the damage.

“Your chin alright, man?” he is asked.

“How does it look?” he asks back. He thinks that it might have been a joke.

“I’ve seen worse. Buddy of mine had an iron bar go straight through his jaw once.” The man’s eyes are bright with a sick reminiscence, but his tone is friendly and open.

One time the Soldier stuck a metal pipe through the torso of a civil rights activist that threatened HYDRA’s plans in some European country. Bucky can hear the slick slide of the pipe. The Winter Soldier completed his mission.

_No, you completed the mission_ , he thinks. _You did that._

The details of the activist’s nature are foggy, but they are true and certain - the world would have been a better place with if she had survived. Bucky looks up at the assistant manager. He is young, mid-20s at the most. Birth year 1988 or 1989. There are scars on the side of his face, a limp when he walks, some sorrow that would have been prevented had the Soldier not taken a shot in his past.

_Had you not taken the shot_ , he thinks. He swallows.

“You alright?” the man asks. Bucky nods. “You’re James Barnes, right?” Bucky’s face gives him away. “Hey, I don’t mean to freak you out, you’re like everybody’s favorite customer, and I’m gonna get shit for weeks if I scare you away. I just wanted to say that I think it’s really cool that you’re okay with going out and about and all that.”

“You can call me Bucky.” He blinks slowly.

“Alright,” the assistant manager says. “I’m Patrick. Would you like a band-aid for your face or something?”

Bucky considers. He nods.

Patrick sits him on a stool and grabs a first-aid kit from the back. He speaks soothing, says a lot of things that Bucky already knows about him. Reconnaissance, but it feels better when the information is offered willingly. He uses steady hands to press the band-aid against Bucky’s chin while Bucky picks the rocks out of his hand, and then he weaves a series of band-aids across Bucky’s palm. The antiseptic burns.

Bucky walks home in the dark. The apartment is empty, quiet. He rolls into bed besides Steve, but does not face him. They do not get the chance to speak.

In the morning, Steve is gone. There is a haze around the apartment. Bucky takes a shower and washes the gel out of his hair. He changes his band-aids. The wound on his face is far from serious, but it is bright red and noticeable. He layers up and goes to therapy. He completes the session like a robot. They discuss his anti-anxiety medication. They discuss his fight with Steve. They discuss Patrick.

On the way back, he crashes in the café. There are a few other customers, but they do not look up when he enters. The co-owner, a pretty pale, older woman with dark hair piled high in a messy bun, is working the register. She smiles when he enters. She makes his drink, and leaves him to his seat in the corner. He connects to the café’s WIFI, pulls up the Wikipedia article on WWII, and follows it onward until 2014.

His head spins. He tries to avoid himself, but he can’t. As he reads, he can see them appear behind his eyelids. Missions, background information, targets. The whole sick, reckless slop of the twentieth century in detail. Every inch of progress, he is there to gun someone down. Any chance at a better future, he is there start a fire, stage an accident. History swells like a wave, and he is there to make sure that it crashes.

When he finally looks up, it is dark and he is coated in ice. He is the only customer left in the lobby. His coffee is half-empty and cold.

The bell over the door rings, and an older, white man in business attire enters the store. “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” the co-owner says from behind the counter before running in back. The customer nods. He flashes Bucky a smile. It feels like slime down the back of his throat. He doesn’t smile back.

“I can help you,” the only other employee working says. He’s tall, thin, and handsome, with dark skin and dark eyes. He’s been there for years, but he’s still on the younger side of twenty-five. Bucky knows that he has a wife and daughter at home, that he loves heavy metal music, that he cried the first time he saw the movie “Frozen”. His name is Andy. Reconnaissance.

The man frowns slightly. Bucky watches in silence, raises his eyebrows as the man proceeds to over-enunciate, cuts Andy off, treats him briskly, speaks down to him. Andy cringes, steels himself. He is polite and courteous back, takes the man’s order with a head nod and forced smile. Bucky digs his nails into the arm of his chair.

The co-owner comes out from the back, makes the man his drink. She hands it to him. He acts the gentleman to her. Bucky boils with anger.

He trips the man on his way out. The man stays on his feet, still keeps a good grasp of his coffee, but he shoots Bucky a dirty look. Bucky shrugs. The ice cracks. He sits in it as it melts, takes the dog tags from around his neck and turns them over and over again in his hand. It stings to move the skin of his palm. He thinks of all the horrors he had heard of in the South, of all the dumb fucks who couldn’t look past the color of Gabe’s skin, the sick and tired feeling that he would get when Morita had to say, again, “I’m from Fresno.”

Bucky gets up and leaves.

\--

When he comes home, he slams the door.

“Bucky,” Steve says. He is sitting on the couch, but he stands to meet Bucky. His voice is soothing. “Can we talk?”

“What do you want to talk about, Steve?” Bucky asks. His voice is cold. He is very tired.

“About the other night – what happened to your face?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I fell,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, sounding wary.

“Yes, Steve, I am sure.” Bucky swallows. “I tripped and I fell.”

Steve gives him a sad, quiet look. “I’m sorry I got mad at you,” he says. Regret is heavy in his voice. “I should have listened.”

Bucky’s shoulders sag. “It’s not important.” He bites his lip. He moves to drift away to his room, but turns on his heel and begins to pace instead.

“It doesn’t look like it’s not important,” Steve says, watching Bucky pace.

Bucky digs his fingers into his palm and winces. “It’s not about that, Steve. It’s – you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.” Steve’s eyes are boring holes into Bucky’s head, but his voice is reassuring.

Bucky closes his eyes. Continues to pace. “Things were supposed to be better,” he finally manages to get out.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks.

“World of the future,” Bucky says. “Things were supposed to be better.”

“Nothing’s perfect, Buck.” Steve crosses his arms. He leans against the back of the couch. “But things are better.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not better, just different.” He gives Steve an angry, desperate glance. “Believe me, I know.”

Steve sets his jaw. “Bucky, I know, too. Better than most people.”

“Steve, I did their dirty work for decades. I know better than you all of the bullshit and evil that runs this world.”

“Then why are you surprised?” Steve asks.

“I’m not surprised,” Bucky scoffs. “I’m just –“ he trails off. “It’s like I can’t stop noticing it, and -.”

Steve swallows. “Bucky, look,” he starts. “Things are still screwed up, but you’ve got to admit that they’re a lot nicer than they used to be. They have vaccinations against polio. Women can be in charge just as easy as guys. I could go out and marry a black girl right now and nobody would bat an eye. Hell, I could go out and marry you tomorrow, and nobody would care.”

“We can do better,” Bucky says. He’s stopped pacing.

“Of course we can. And we’re here to help,” Steve says.

Bucky shakes his head. He’s stilted. There are words he’s trying to get out, but they die in his mouth. He swallows and takes a deep breath, thinks of Patrick and Andy. “Steve, they should have already been better,” he says finally.

Steve cocks his head. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

Bucky stands his ground, but he wraps his arm around his body and slouches. His eyes are glistening. “They told me –“ he begins, but pauses. Steve is at full attention. “They always told me that I shaped the century.”

“Bucky,” Steve says sternly. He can hear Zola’s mechanical voice in his head. “You can’t tell me that you believe this is your fault,” he finishes, his voice an octave lower than where it was when he started.

Bucky gives Steve a pathetic look. “Why not?”

Steve swallows and takes a deep breath. “First of all, you know that you aren’t capable of being held responsible for anything the Soldier did. And second of all, you have no way of knowing if things would be better or worse without HYDRA’s influence. You’re not clairvoyant, Buck.”

Bucky is blank; he is a husk of a person leaning up against the wall facing Steve. He drips with exhaustion and despair. “Steve,” he says. His voice is empty. It makes Steve anxious. “I am the Soldier. He is me.” His voice breaks. “And I did a lot of awful things.”

Steve is at the edge of some great, black pit. “Bucky, look-“ he tries to say, but he is cut off.

“Steve, you don’t understand,” Bucky snaps. He digs his fingers into his ribcage. “You could never understand.”

Steve sighs. He deflates; he is defeated. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”

“I would like to be alone,” Bucky murmurs. His eyes are cast at the ground.

“I won’t bother you,” Steve says, his own voice matching Bucky’s. Bucky drifts past him like a ghost and shuts the door with an almost inaudible click. Steve revisits helplessness like it is an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not keeping my promise! Real life got in the way. Don't worry, though, I have a backlog of about ten chapters + I am still actively writing. I hope to have it finished by the end of the summer.


	26. so many times had belonged

It’s easy to find a comprehensive list of Winter Soldier assassinations on the Internet; it takes Bucky less than two minutes. It’s neatly organized and easy to follow; it is cross-dated by year, physical location and target ‘type’ – artist, politician, inventor, etc. Bucky sees some that he doesn’t remember and the thought fills him with dread. He remembers some that he doesn’t see, and he jots down what he thinks of in relation with a shaking right hand.

He spends a horrid, sleepless night reading. He stops when he nods off in his chair. When he wakes up, it is four in the afternoon the following day. Bright sunlight is cast across the room. He feels filth underneath his fingernails and a slick coating of grime on his back. He creeps out of his room to find an empty apartment, takes the quickest shower he can manage and then takes a seat at the kitchen table. The apartment is lonely when it is quiet. He can hear the heater rattle, and nothing else. Outside, the sun is beginning to set. He watches a woman across the street walk from her car to her apartment building with a bag full of groceries. It carves a dripping hole out of his chest.

He has a cell phone. Steve gave it to him. He dials a number that he has never used.

The person on the other line answers. He doesn’t expect it. “Hallo,” Natasha says.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

“Where are you?” she replies immediately.

He squints. “Home,” he says. “The apartment.”

“Are you alone?” she asks.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Are you in trouble?”

Bucky frowns. “No,” he says, sounding forlorn. “Not really.”

“I’ll be over as soon as possible,” she says. She sounds curt over the phone. She hangs up, and he regrets calling her. His stomach turns for thirty-five minutes as he waits.

Finally, there is a knock.

He opens the door to see her in formal wear, a little black dress with high heels and a large leather jacket over it. Her hair is to her shoulders and her makeup is spectacular. She wears diamonds in her ears. They glitter in the mist that she occupies around his head. He is suddenly very self-conscious of the baggy, dark shapeless things that he is dressed in.

“You’re fancy,” he says, for lack of anything else.

She allows him a smirk. “I was trying to improve my public image,” she tells him. He gives her a look of confusion. “There’s a fundraiser at Stark’s tonight. I’m sure Steve told you.”

“No,” he says. “He didn’t.” His heart sags.

Natasha frowns. “What’s up?” she asks. Her face is neutral, but concern paints her body language and eyes. “Why did you want to speak with me?”

Bucky begins to pace. He digs his nails into his palm. It had all made sense to him, in his head, before, but now he is choking. “Barnes,” she says coolly. “Barnes,” she repeats. He continues to pace. “James,” she says. Bucky turns to face her.

“How do you do it?” he asks, his voice on the rising edge of hysterical.

“Do what?” she asks, but she knows.

“Do anything!” Bucky exclaims. He stops pacing. “How do you manage to do that,” he says, gesturing to her outfit, “after everything?”

“Clarify,” she says, crossing her arms. “Clarify what you are trying to say to me.”

He swallows and his nostrils flare. “You’re just as bad as me,” he says. “But you live with it. How?”

She looks him up and down, once, twice. Her mouth twists and then she says “You have red in your ledger.” It sounds like an echo.

“What?” he asks.

“You have red in your ledger,” she repeats. “So do I. I’m trying to wipe mine out. At first I thought that I could do it by working for SHIELD. Obviously, I was wrong.” She pauses, glances at the floor. “That’s how I do it. We have a unique skillset, James. As cliché as it sounds, I’m trying to use mine for good.”

“So what?” Bucky asks. “You switch sides and that makes it better?”

Natasha’s lip twitches. “Well, I found out too late that I hadn’t really switched sides at all,” she tells him. “But yes, in theory, it does.” She shifts her weight. “James, killing is the only thing that I know how to do. I might as well do it for a cause I deem worthy.” She pauses. “It works for me.”

Bucky laughs bitterly. “So that’s it? That’s our only option?”

“No,” Natasha says. “But it was my best option.” She pauses, thinks. “James, I was no one before I was the Widow. You were a whole other person before you were the Soldier.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t,” he says. “Not really.” He frowns. “You know, killing’s the only thing I’ve ever really been good at it.” He offers a sad smile. It hangs on him.

“Then embrace it,” Natasha says. “Wallowing will only make it worse. You have red in your ledger. You have a particular skillset. Use it.”

“How?”

Natasha considers. “I’m unsure how willing you are to bare your neck, but Fury would love to have you,” she says. “Not SHIELD. Fury. Whatever’s left of the Avengers Initiative.” She stops. “And if you’re not willing to bare your neck, there are other options.”

“What other options?” Bucky asks.

“Foreign governments. Other intelligence agencies. The CIA would love you. The FBI would love you. MI6, the list goes on.”

“No,” Bucky snaps. “No. Never.” Natasha understands.

“Then you have Fury, or you go solo.”

Bucky swallows hard. His eyes are wet. He shakes.

“Think it over,” Natasha says. “It is an option.” She pauses, adds sadly, “The best one people like us have.”

There is a pregnant pause between the two. Something hangs in the air. Bucky’s finger twitches. There is a connection here that he still cannot grasp. He gives her a look, studies her. “Who was I to you?” he asks, his voice low. “And don’t tell me that I’m gonna remember because I haven’t, nothing past you being a kid, and I know there’s more that you aren’t telling me.”

“Do you?” she asks, turning her head to one side.

“I know because of the way you look at me,” he says. “And the way that you – I can’t see you, Nat, not really. I can almost see you, but you’re like… mist at the edges of my head.”

There is something vibrantly sad about her, but her face is hard and calm. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yeah, Nat, I do,” he says.

She composes herself, shuts herself down. It’s amazing to watch, how a person could be so alive and then so suddenly dull. Bucky begins to mourn for her previous vulnerability, but when she opens her mouth to speak he stops. Every word she says is heavy with regret and something else – an intangible, thick something else.

“You remember the first time that we were assigned a mission together. I was thirteen. They thought that I showed promise. In hindsight, I believe that they were testing me by assigning me a mission with the Winter Soldier. I had met you once before, when I was younger. You trained me and a handful of other recruits. I did not know who you were. I did not know who you were on the mission that you remember, either. I had an idea, but it was not confirmed until much later.” She blinks.

“I met you again when I was fifteen. We were not on assignment together, but we spent a few days in the same safe house in France. Our handlers recognized that we worked together well. I don’t believe that the Soldier worked very well with anyone, so you can imagine that they were pleased to find me. We were placed on a mission together the following year, and then intermittently through a period of four years in the late ‘90s and early 2000s.” She swallows hard.

“Then I left. I didn’t see you again until Odessa, and then I didn’t see you until DC.” She thins her lips, stands up straighter.

Bucky blinks, swallows, bites his lip. “Were we – “ he asks, but can’t bring himself to finish.

“Sometimes,” she says. Her voice is even. Bucky’s heart sinks.

“Did you love me?” he asks.

Something briefly ghosts across her face. “Love is for children,” she says. It sounds like an echo.

He bites his lip and looks her up, down. “You were a child,” he says.

She does not make eye contact. “I’m not anymore.”

There is silence. He swallows. “Thank you, Natalia,” he says.

“Any time, James,” she tells him. “Do you still need me?” It is straight-forward. He likes it.

“No,” he says. It’s the truth. The sun has dipped under the Earth. Outside, the streets freeze. Natasha nods.

“Think about what I said.” She leaves quietly.

Bucky stands alone again in the apartment. He is tired. His bones ache. His heart drips. He crawls into his bed and falls asleep to the sound of the heater rattling. It is 6:25 PM.

He wakes up at 11:47 PM. The apartment is dark, save for the lights he turned on himself. He is alone. He lays in his bed, faces the plaster of the ceiling. Natasha’s right, he thinks.

_She usually is,_ he can hear Steve say somewhere in his head.

There are spots in his memories that she fills. There is red in his ledger. There is a gnawing imprint of the Soldier’s actions on the 21st century. They are his actions. He is the Soldier. He rolls over. He’s Bucky Barnes. Killing was the only thing he was ever good at. It’s in his bloodline. He rolls over again. He can see Nat at fifteen under the fairy lights in Paris. He blinks. He sees Ruth Mathers. He blinks. He needs to speak with Nick Fury. He buries his face in his hand. He needs to bare his neck. He has a unique skillset. He needs to use it for good.

He wishes Steve would come home.

He gets his wish at 12:14 AM. The door opens. Bucky freezes. He can hear Steve take off his coat and shoes. He can hear Steve pad down the hallway to his bedroom. He stops briefly outside of Bucky’s door. Please come in, Bucky wills, but Steve does not. At 12:23 AM, Steve leaves his bedroom and enters the kitchen. The radio turns on. He switches the station from oldies to late night talk radio. He makes tea.

At 12:57 AM, Steve goes to bed. At 12:59 AM, Bucky follows him.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says when he enters. The light is not yet out. Steve sits at the edge of his bed with a glass of water. “How are you feeling?” he asks. His voice is marked with a fresh kind of concern.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the fundraiser?” he asks.

Steve feels guilty; it comes off of him in waves. “I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t want to wake you.” Bucky’s heart sags. He realizes dully that the last thing he wants to do is hurt Steve.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says. He pauses, suddenly feels very bad. “I talked to Nat.”

“I know,” Steve says. “You stole my best conversation partner.” There is laughter in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. He comes out from the shadows and crawls into bed. The sheets are cool against his skin.

Steve is apprehensive. The tension is apparent in his muscles, the way he holds himself. But he rolls into bed and turns off the light. Bucky snakes his arm around Steve’s waist. “Steve, you can ask about Natasha.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Did she help you?” he asks.

Bucky sighs. It is a lazy action. He considers. “I don’t know,” he replies. “We knew each other. Before Odessa.” Steve strokes Bucky’s wrist.

“You know, I wouldn’t care,” Steve says. His voice is calming.

“Wouldn’t care if what?” Bucky asks.

“If you two were –“ Steve doesn’t finish. He keeps dragging his thumb up and down the length of Bucky’s wrist. “I wouldn’t care.”

Bucky closes his eyes, tight. He presses his forehead against Steve’s back. “I wouldn’t care now, either,” Steve continues. Bucky can feel his speech vibrate in his ribcage. “If you two were –“

“We’re not,” Bucky says. His voice is sharper than he means it to be. It makes him close his eyes tighter.

“As long as you’re happy,” Steve says. His voice is quiet, low. Bucky tries to muffle a sob. He thinks: there is red in my ledger.

Steve abandons his wrist and rolls over. Wordlessly, Bucky claws at him, squeezes him tight and buries his head into his chest. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky. All Bucky can smell is Steve. He can hear a buried heartbeat. They entwine their legs. Bucky falls asleep to the rhythm of Steve’s breathing. Steve falls asleep shortly after.


	27. to someone that wasn't strong

Bucky is in a tavern. He is dreaming. He is frozen at a counter, hand curled tightly around a glass. The bodies around him are in suspended animation. The ash of war is coated thick on his skin. The god of death pulls at his eyelids. He is not alone.

There’s a boy at his side. He’s young, far too young to be in a place like this. His bones are thin and his skin is dark. He looks up at Bucky with bright eyes. “Hi,” he says. He’s not speaking English, but Bucky can understand him. “What is your name?” He asks.

“Uh,” Bucky begins. “People call me ‘Bucky’.”

“Is that your real name?” the boy asks. He takes a seat next to Bucky on a bar stool. He looks bizarre. He can’t be older than ten.

Bucky swallows. “No,” he says. “My real name is James.”

“Then why do people call you ‘Bucky’?” the boy asks. He is dressed in fine clothing. His feet dangle off the floor.

Bucky frowns. “I don’t really know,” he answers. It’s the truth. “What’s your name?” he asks.

The boy shrugs. “I don’t have one.”

“You have to have a name,” Bucky says.

The boy does not miss a beat. “You didn’t for a long time,” he says. Bucky feels very cold.

“Do you like baseball?” the boy asks, sounding perky.

“I think I used to,” Bucky replies. Something feels very wrong about this.

The boy grins. “Would you like to play with me?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Bucky says. The boy jumps down from the stool and pulls on Bucky’s sleeve.

“Of course you can,” the boy says. He guides Bucky out of the tavern. They weave between the still bodies of the other patrons. Bucky winces. The faces are unfamiliar, but their poses are garish – mockeries of laughter, or dancing. Their eyes are wet and beady. Bucky averts his.

Outside, it is cold. The streets are like Brooklyn, 1943, but they are dead. There is not a single soul left on them. It is pitch black. The boy follows the cold, bright streetlamps, and Bucky follows the boy. They wind down streets, turn left and right until they end up in front of the tavern again.

“This is where we started,” Bucky tells him.

“Are you sure?” the boy asks. “Do you remember?”

He opens the door and the tavern is gone. Instead, there is a dark room that Bucky can barely remember. It is ornate, dripping with finery and looking foreign. _India_ , is what Bucky thinks of. Bucky’s skin crawls. “Hey, where are we –“ he begins, but he stops.

“Do you remember?” the boy asks again. He is standing in front of him. Bucky blinks once, and the boy is gone. Bucky blinks twice and there are bodies strewn about the floor. He gasps, takes a step back. There are blood stains on the drapes and the fine carpets. Four bodies, two female, two male. Two children. The boy is staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. His mother is curled around him. Bucky yelps, covers his mouth with his hand.

“Soldier!” someone barks from behind him. Bucky jumps, spins on his heel to face Alexander Pierce. His blood runs cold as ice in his veins and he squeals. “Soldier!” Pierce barks again. “What is your mission?” he shouts. “What is your mission?” he repeats, closing in the space between them. Bucky steps back, trips over a body and lands on hard on the ground. Pierce continues. He is yelling incoherently, fractures of half-remembered orders and assignments. Bucky continues to crawl backward. He can feel the soft skin of the body beneath him, closes his eyes and tries not to vomit as he stumbles away, backward and backward.

He stops when he feels pressure on his back. He is against the wall. Sweat is slick on his skin. He realizes the room is silent. The silence is broken by another voice.

“Bucky!” he can hear Steve call. Bucky opens his eyes. He stands in the doorway, five foot four and ninety-five pounds. “Bucky,” he repeats. His voice is low and full of fear.

“Steve!” Bucky yells back. “Steve, oh thank god.” He tries to climb to unsteady feet. “Steve you have got to help me; Peirce is back and I don’t know –“

“What the hell did you do?” Steve yells at him. Bucky is at a loss.

“Stevie, look, I don’t know –“ he tries, but Steve cuts him off.

“You don’t know?” Steve asks, his voice thick with accusation. He gestures to the family. “India, 1972,” he says. He is livid.

Bucky shakes his head. “Steve, I know, but there is something –“

“Kids, Bucky?” he asks. His eyes are cold. There are blossoms of dark red starting to form at three points in his chest. Bucky watches with horror. “You disgust me,” Steve says. “You’re a monster, Bucky. You’re a bully and a murderer.” The red is growing now; it has soaked through Steve’s shirt. “Did you really think that I could love you? I can barely bring myself to look at you.” Steve is losing blood fast; his skin is drained of color. He steps forward on shaking feet, weak finger pointed at Bucky accusingly.

“Steve,” Bucky sobs. Steve takes another step, and then collapses. Bucky tries to catch him, but it is too late. When Bucky touches him, he turns into nothing in his hands.

“Good job, Soldier,” he hears Pierce say from above him. There are heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor. “Mission accomplished. You know what to do next.” Bucky doesn’t even need to look. He can feel the presence of the chair behind him. “What are you waiting for?” Pierce asks, but he’s both Pierce and not Pierce. He’s every handler Bucky has ever had, every man who unfroze the Soldier and let the asset loose. “Sit down. Open your mouth.”

Bucky closes his eyes. He has red in his ledger. He has a unique skillset. He grabs Pierce by the throat with his metal hand. Pierce is heavy, but Bucky can lift him with ease. His fingers wrap tighter and Pierce’s eyes bulge. He gasps, pants, pleads. Bucky strangles him against the wall.

Pierce’s body falls with a thud. Bucky steps over him and out the door.

The streets are still dead. There are stray snowflakes falling, and a cold wind blowing from the North. Bucky shivers, but he feels free. He breathes easy.

There’s a woman to his left. She is tall, but not taller than him. Her hair is dark and her eyes are sad. He does not recognize her. She steps forward, and he lets her. Without saying a word, she smoothes back his hair. He closes his eyes and leans into it, heaving a shaky sigh.

When he opens them, he is in Steve’s bedroom. “Bucky, Bucky,” Steve is crooning. He is smoothing back his hair. It is a comforting gesture. “Bucky,” he says.

Bucky swallows, rolls out of sleep and leans up. “Bucky, are you alright?” Steve asks. Bucky can feel his shirt stick to his sweat-slicked skin, but he feels very cold. He is panting. His face is wet. He takes a deep breath. It is the first nightmare he has had since before Christmas.

“I killed Pierce,” he says. Steve bites his lip. “In my dream.”

“Are you –“ Steve begins. “How do you feel?” Bucky’s heart pounds. He falls back into the bed with a sigh.

“I know what I have to do,” he says. He sounds dreary. Steve furrows his eyebrows, but says nothing. Wordlessly, Bucky drapes Steve’s arm across his chest. The room is dark and cool. “I’m sorry I shot you.” The last of the word soup.

“It’s alright,” Steve says. “I got better.”

“I could have killed you,” Bucky replies quietly.

“Bucky, you saved me.” Bucky swallows, takes a deep breath. “You saved my life.” Steve squeezes him tighter. They do not speak until morning. Neither of them sleep.


	28. yeah, well they're gone

Dawn creeps across the bedroom, and Bucky is the first to break the silence. The dream is stuck in his head, replaying on a loop. There is a filmy haze over his thoughts. His eyes are dry and tired, and when he says “Do you know where my mother is buried?” His voice is hoarse with disuse.

Steve takes a moment to reply. The question catches him off guard. He had been distracted by repetition – the rise and fall of their chests, the slow back and forth of his hand as he had stroked Bucky’s wrist. It had been quiet. It had been theirs, completely, for one moment longer. “Yeah,” he says. “Unless they moved it.”

Bucky frowns. “Would they have moved it?”

Steve sighs. It is a statement, a way of saying that the night has ended and morning has to begin. “Probably not,” he says.

In his head, a tall woman with a steady hand pushes back Bucky’s hair. He chews on his lower lip. “Do you think we could go?”

Steve’s eyebrow twitches with surprise, and he turns his head to face Bucky. “Of course,” he says. There is a nervous expectancy hanging between the two. “Would you like to go today?”

Bucky blinks, considers. “If we can,” he says warily. He means ‘yes, please.’

Steve rolls out of bed. They put things into motion. They rent a car. They bring snacks. Bucky helps Steve get ready, refuses to be a heavy, useless thing on the couch, even though he yearns to just sit, make sense of it all. He tallies up the Soldier’s – _his_ – death count as he dresses, as he gather things and waits for Steve. It makes his heart ache, but there is a sense of knowledge beyond it. A choice. He closes his eyes and sees Natasha purse her lips, explain her position. Fits into place like something makes sense. It pricks at the back of his neck.

“Been thinking about your mom, lately?” Steve asks when they get into the car. His voice is low, calming. He is trying so hard.

“I think that she was in my dream,” Bucky explains from the passenger’s seat. He owes Steve that much.

“The one you had last night?” Steve asks. Bucky nods. “Do you think visiting her grave would help you remember her?”

“Maybe,” Bucky replies _. It might help make sense of something,_ he hopes.

The rest of the ride is silent. They keep the oldies station on until they lose the signal, then they station surf until they find something decent. Steve keeps his eyes on the road. There is something that Bucky is not telling him. There is a wall between them. It’s thick, well-crafted. It feels like the walls Bucky had in Brooklyn, in Europe during the war. It is built brick by brick in the space between the driver’s seat and passenger’s seat. It makes Steve’s heart feel hollow.

Bucky presses his head against the glass of the window, watches the scape of the land as they drive past. If he does what Nat said – if he bares his neck – he’s going to need an arm. Bucky closes his eyes, concentrates on the absence of it. The loss had been good, before. It was heavy a weight lifted. Now the empty space suffocates him. He sets his jaw, if only to feel the quickly fading bruise on his chin from the night after the theatre. _With the arm_ , he thinks. With the arm.

Hours later, they find a grave.

It’s tiny, old. In disrepair. Steve hasn’t seen it for years. He shoots a small ‘thank you’ to whatever higher power might exist that it was still there. “WINIFRED E BARNES” it reads. “1898 – 1934”. There is no room for anything else on the headstone, and if there was it would have been blank. They didn’t have the money to afford anything more.

Bucky’s breath is tight. It knocks the air out of him. His lungs close. “She died young,” he says. Steve nods. “I thought that she had died – after.” The arm is forgotten.

“No,” Steve says. “You were still a kid.” In 1934, he is holding Bucky on the swollen wooden floor of their apartment, before it became their apartment. They walk home in the rain.

Bucky chokes on a bitter laugh. “That makes it worse,” he says. He is filled with nervous energy. If he were home, he would be pacing. He takes it out by rocking back and forth on his heels. “I couldn’t even remember that she died.”

Steve is grasping. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I would have told you, but –“

“Thought never occurred to you,” Bucky finishes with an involuntary frown. He doesn’t blame Steve. Softer, he asks “How did she die?”

Steve bites his lip. It is 1925, and Winifred paces. “She needs someone to take care of her,” Bucky says, all of eight years old, sometime in the past. The memory makes Steve frown. “She was sick. She was like me. She was always sick. She caught a fever and couldn’t shake it,” he says.

“What did I do?” Bucky asks. The air is cold. A crow calls across the graveyard. The sun is high and bright, but buried under a layer of grey clouds. Bucky is shivering.

Steve swallows. “Sold everything,” he says. “Buried her. You dropped out of school so you could work. You bought the apartment we lived in the money you had because rent was cheaper. Didn’t really have anything to put in it, though.”

Bucky stares the headstone. His face is unreadable. “You know,” he begins, casually. “I remember my dad. But I don’t remember her.” There is something bitter to his words.

“What was your dad like?” Steve asks. Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’m serious,” Steve says. “You never told me about him. I never met him.”

Bucky brings his hand to his jaw, rubs his face and eyes. “My dad was –“ He swallows, choosing his words carefully. “My dad was not a nice guy, Steve. You’re lucky you never met him.” Steve frowns. He wonders about George Barnes.

Bucky cuts through his train of thought. “What would she think of me?” he asks, his voice darker. Something is swimming around his head.

“Your mom?” Bucky nods. Steve thinks. In the past, Winifred runs a hand through Bucky’s hair. She throws him adoring glances, speaks softly. The devotion is plain on her face. “She’d probably be proud of you, Buck,” Steve says. His honesty is cutting.

Bucky laughs. It is hollow. “Proud of me?” he repeats, like it is some sad joke. “Steve, c’mon.”

“I’m being serious,” Steve says. “She loved you, Bucky. She’d be happy to see that you’re okay. And she would be proud of you. You broke away from HYDRA. You came back.”

Bucky spends a moment in silence. The wheels in his head are spinning. He repeats various mantras, stops them, rewinds them. Can’t make sense of them. He sighs. “Can we go home?” he says, sounding guilty and tired.

“Of course,” Steve says. “Is it alright if we visit one more grave?” Bucky nods.

Sarah Rogers is buried nearby. Her grave is one of many grouped together, small and inconspicuous. They do not talk as they visit. _I’m sorry that I didn’t visit you sooner_ , Steve thinks, entertains his own ‘what would you think of me now?’ He can’t give a good answer.

Wordlessly, Bucky snakes his right hand into Steve’s left. The gesture causes Steve to lift an eyebrow, but he squeezes back. Bucky leans into his shoulder. He says nothing because he assumes that it all goes unsaid. A gentle, kind breeze blows his hair back.

There is a simplicity, a calmness. Things align _. It is a choice_ , echoes. _The only one people like us have._

They leave. “Do you want to grab something to eat?” Steve asks. Bucky nods. They’re both hungry in a sad, gnawing way.

They stop at a fast food place on the drive home. Bucky stands in the corner while Steve orders. It’s sick, he knows, but there is a path for him now. A way to make things better. He’s going to need his arm. He’s going to need to train. He’s going to need to bare his neck, but it’s his neck, and he can do what he wants with it. He has red in his ledger. He has a unique skillset. He broke away from HYDRA. He came back. He closes his eyes.

“Excuse me?” he hears from his side. Bucky opens his eyes. There’s a girl standing next to him. She’s young, can’t be older than nineteen. Her hair is bleached white and cut short, her lips are painted red and she has two bright eyes staring out from behind dark rimmed glasses. He doesn’t know what to say. She stops, nervous. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“No,” he says. “It’s okay.”

She bites her lip. “Are you James Barnes?” she asks. His heart beats cold and he freezes, leans further into the wall. But he nods.

She smiles with relief. “Alright,” she says. She’s nervous. “I just wanted to say that I, uh, I really support you and that –“

“Hey,” Steve says. His tone is friendly. He is holding a bag full of food. She jumps.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Hi Captain America, I’m sorry, I’m –“

“Whoa, hey,” Steve starts. He’s calm, his body language is open. “You can call me Steve.” She laughs nervously. Steve shoots Bucky a look, a ‘are you alright with this?’ Bucky nods.

“Hi Steve,” she says. “I’m Maggie, I was just – I wanted to say thank you and that me and my little brother really like you guys, and I wanted to know if maybe I could get a picture?” She is shaking like a leaf.

Bucky frowns. “With both of us?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course,” she says.

“Sure, we can take a picture,” Steve tells her. “Do we need someone to hold a camera, or -?”

“No,” she says. “I can just take a selfie if you guys want to get in?”

She holds her phone out in front of her and positions herself in the center. Steve knows what he is doing, steps in on the left. Bucky copies him on the right, bewildered. He offers a begrudging smile. Steve and Maggie grin at the camera. She snaps a series of pictures.

“Thank you,” she says.

“It’s no problem, Maggie,” Steve tells her. He is demure and kind. Bucky keeps his mouth snapped shut. Maggie smiles and walks back to her seat on unsteady feet.

Back in the car, Bucky says “She wanted my picture.”

“Of course she did,” Steve says. “You have fans, remember?”

“Yeah, but –“ Bucky pauses, furrows his eyebrows. Finally, he chokes out a laugh. “Is that gonna keep happening?” he asks.

“Probably,” Steve says. “I’m surprised it hasn’t happened to you already. But they’re usually alright. I like them a lot more than the TV people.”

Bucky furrow his eyebrows and leans back into his seat. His face is etched with a sort of amused disbelief. “That was my first selfie,” he tells Steve.

Steve laughs. “Wasn’t mine,” he says with a smile. He’s thinking of something, some other moment.

“You take seflies?” Bucky asks. He relaxes against the back of the seat, places his right arm on the window against the glass.

The car starts. Steve grins and takes a deep breath, but his movements are comical. “I’ve _taken_ selfies,” he corrects. “Not my strongest moments.”

“What?” Bucky hits the dashboard with his hand as if to drive home his point. “I refuse to believe that; you are by-far the most photogenic guy I know.”

Steve laughs. “You flatter me, Bucky, but I am being serious. I cannot take a good selfie. You’d probably be good at it though.”

“Me?” Bucky asks. He raises an eyebrow and gives Steve _that_ look. “Steve, c’mon.”

“No, really,” Steve says. This is good. They’re good. Everything about this is good. “Bucky, you had about half the girls in Brooklyn trailing after you. About a quarter of the guys, too, if I had to guess. You can’t tell me that you didn’t see the way that girl who sold us our tickets at the movie was lookin’ at you.”

Bucky snorts. “Steve, she was so starstruck by you she couldn’t see straight.”

Steve laughs. “Oh, she could see. I dare you to google yourself and find a bad picture.” Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve continues. “They have this huge picture of you up at the Smithsonian. I used to visit it all the time, and do you know what the number one thing I heard was? ‘Gee, I never realized how cute that Barnes guy was.’”

“You visited the Smithsonian?” Bucky asks.

Steve pauses, nods. “Yeah, but–“

Bucky smiles to himself, shakes his head. Steve frowns. “What is it?” he asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Nah, it’s just –“ He stops, picks at the lock on his car door. “After the Potomac, I didn’t have anywhere to go. I failed my mission. And even if I hadn’t –“ He swallows. “Even if I hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been anyone to report to. So, I bummed around. I didn’t really understand why it was happening, but I was starting to realize what – what they did to me, and –“ Bucky takes a deep breath, but he keeps his face controlled, at rest. It reminds Steve of a mask Bucky would wear in Brooklyn.

“I knew they had an exhibit on you at the Smithsonian, right? And I knew that you were, uh, important. So I went and I didn’t really, you know, remember anything right away, but I saw my face – that big picture you were talking about – I saw it up there. And I knew that you hadn’t just been crazy, and that I had been, well, a person.” Bucky stops. “And somebody that was important to you.” He blinks. “You said you went there a lot?”

Steve’s lips are downturned and there is a weight on his chest and shoulders. “Yeah,” he says. “When I came back I didn’t have anything. All of my stuff was sold or traded over the years. I had - I had all the royalties and military back pay, so I wasn’t desperate, and sometimes people would send me things that were mine that they had, but I didn’t have anything that was yours. I didn’t have any pictures or anything that belonged to you.”

His eyes are focused on the road. “The Smithsonian did, though. And I would’ve – I should’ve – asked if I could have a few things, but there wasn’t a lot of you left. I told myself that you belonged to everyone now. You weren’t just mine anymore. It wasn’t just us. But I could still come and visit you, so that’s what I did.” Steve smiles sadly. “I visited a lot.”

Bucky presses his cheek into his seat, rolls to look at Steve. “I belong to you,” he says with a sort of painful unguarded openness that Steve hasn’t seen from him in weeks.

“No,” Steve says. The quiet lilt of Bucky’s voice pulls at his heart. He’s not sure if he likes it, the sort of one-minded devotion more suited to a mental state marked by fragility. There is a sad, honest sort of acceptance when he says “The only person that you belong to is you.”

The corners of Bucky’s mouth pull into a big, trembling smile. He spends the ride home with his feet on the dashboard and his body turned toward Steve. They talk about alcohol and Led Zeppelin, and Bucky spills cheap French fries underneath the seat. They carve out the space together.


	29. just stay here in my arms

**Selected quotes from various Fox News broadcasts, January 2015**

“Did you _see_ the look on his face when they asked him if he remembered his time as the Winter Soldier? If he was lucid enough to remember, don’t you think that he could have been lucid enough to stop if he really wanted to?”

“What does it say about this man’s character if the only people who personally know and strongly support him are 1) a childhood friend who has no qualms breaking the law and sharing classified government information and 2) a woman who was working for the same people he was! I can’t believe that we’re ignoring all of the horrible things that he’s done because of the current celebrity status he seems to have garnered. If anything, this is just another indicator of how far America has fallen. We can’t just let these people do whatever they want and then not hold them responsible for what happens when their actions finally catch up with them!”

“Captain America has done nothing but make America look weak. Does anybody else see how backwards this is?”

**Tumblr, 15:48, January 20 th**

[A photo post of the selfie taken at the fast food place. Maggie is smiling front and center. Steve and Bucky are gathered around her.] Underneath is the caption: “ahh! look who i met this weekend!”

The post has 16,784 notes.

**Various news headlines, January 22 nd**

“SaveJamesBarnes Charity Event Brings In $100,000 To Help Rebuild DC”

“The Future of the Industry: How the Leaked Shield Files Are Revolutionizing Medical Technology”

“INTERACTIVE: Timeline Map of James Barnes’ Life”

**Savebuckybarnes.com, 10:51, January 23 rd**

“Hey guys! Pictures from the #savejamesbarnes Charity Drive are now up in the photo gallery! Go check them out. We’re so thankful for the high turn-out last weekend, and we’re even more pleased to see that affiliate charities all over the globe did their part! Seriously, we got pictures from Wisconsin to Japan. You guys rock!”

**Tumblr, 18:17, January 25 th**

[An anonymous question directed at Maggie.] “omg where did u meet them????” She responds, “okay so i was at my local mcd’s with some friends and they came in! i was so nervous i didn’t think i could talk to them but they were both really nice!!! bucky seemed really surprised that i wanted his pic (poor bb) but he was super sweet and cap was just as nice as everyone always says he is!!! we posed for the pic and then they left i almost fainted uwu”. The post has 36 notes.

**Huffington Post Opinions, 17:54, January 24 th**

“James Barnes Is Not a Hero” The caption: “And he’s not a villain either. Why casting him in terms of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ is bad for him, bad for us, and bad for the way we understand security and intelligence in the 2010s.”

**Buzzfeed, 13:11, January 27 th**

“25 Things We’d Show James Barnes About the 21st Century” Caption: “We know he likes Star Wars, but what else might the ex-Howling Commando like?”

**Reddit, 22:08, January 29 th**

Top rated post in /r/TumblrInAction: “Yes, let’s just walk up to the FUCKING WINTER SOLDIER and ask for a picture!” Attached is a screenshot of the Maggie’s answer to the anonymous question.

Selected comment: “Someone’s got a death-wish.”

**Blogger, 15:36, January 31 st**

“Hey guys! I’m going to be taking a break from my regular blogging adventures for this post (don’t worry, this single mom trying to eat right is still a single mom trying to eat right, although I might have snuck a visit to the Cheesecake Factory for my birthday ;) ). I’m going to talk about something that’s really important to me: my great-grandmother.

I’ve mentioned her a couple of times in the past, especially in regards to how important she was in encouraging me to follow my dreams and become a nurse when I was a little girl. She died in 1997, and I had to take a semester off to deal with things. Her influence really inspired me to become the person that I am today.

What I haven’t mentioned, however, is her past. Nana was born in 1920 in New York. She moved to Brooklyn in 1940 to find work. Astute readers may have some idea of where this is going, but in-case you’re thick like me, here’s a picture I found while clearing out her old things that should clue you in:

[Attached is a picture of Ruth Mathers and Bucky Barnes. It is a group-shot on the stairs of some old, brick building. Ruth is on the far left. Bucky’s arm is wrapped her waist. Steve is standing beside Bucky. An unknown woman is standing beside Steve. They are all smiling. It is the only picture of Ruth and Bucky together.]

See that pretty lady on the far left? The one that _James Barnes_ is hanging onto. Yup. That’s Nana.”

The rest of the blog post is hidden beneath a cut. It is making rounds around the blogosphere.


	30. longer than it seems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks as always to tumblr user [johnymarr](http://johnymarr.tumblr.com) for being the Fox news correspondent in the last chapter, and for taking the time to be a fantastic beta reader. :)

After the cemetery, Steve and Bucky go home.

It is dark when they get in. Every inch of Bucky is tired. His arm hangs, and his legs ache. Steve feels fine, but there is nothing he would rather do than close his eyes and black out.

They separate once they reach the threshold of the door. Bucky creeps down the hallway, takes a long shower. Steve changes his clothes, stretches. He thinks about his mother. Bucky thinks about Nick Fury.

Steve makes tea. He wanders barefoot into the living room, steaming mug in hand. Bucky meets him halfway. They say nothing to each other, but lines of communication hang between them. Bucky looks at the half-finished stack of DVDs they have. Steve nods. They pile on the couch. Bucky drapes his legs across Steve. Steve strokes his calf absent-mindedly. He can see the fading scar that once bloomed so red the time that Bucky ran. He runs his fingers across it. Bucky lets him.

By the time the movie has finished, Bucky is asleep. Steve covers him with blankets. He resists the urge to kiss his head, realizes that he can, and does. He reads for two hours before going to sleep himself. The bed is lonely when it is just him. Steve closes his eyes and tries not to think about it.

In the morning, Bucky wakes up to Steve whistling in the shower. He sits outside the door and listens. He is planning.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve says when he leaves the bathroom. He smells like cinnamon. Bucky takes a deep breath, takes a much welcome break. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. It’s not a lie, but it feels like one. _Tell Steve_ , he thinks, but he says “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Steve looks around and shrugs. “You’re just kind of sitting out here.”

Bucky’s lip twitches. “I was listening to you whistle,” he says. His voice is warm.

“Am I that good?” Steve asks.

Bucky considers. “Nah,” he says. “Pretty bad actually.” He shoots Steve a grin. Steve hits him in the head with a towel.

Later, Bucky inspects himself in the mirror. He’s lost weight, mostly muscle. He’s still strong, in better shape than he was in Brooklyn (better fed, he supposes), but leaner. He thinks that whatever serum they pumped him full of is causing it. He needs training, but he has advantages. He takes inventory like the Soldier. It unnerves him, but it is familiar. “I’m Bucky,” he tells himself _. You’re the Soldier_ , _too_ , he thinks.

“What took you so long?” Steve asks when Bucky comes out. He is on the couch in sweatpants, book open on his lap.

“I was jacking off,” Bucky replies without missing a beat. Steve raises his eyebrows. Bucky laughs, mostly shocked that he was able to deliver a joke so quickly. Steve laughs, too, and then laughs harder when he sees the thrilled expression on Bucky’s face. They carve out the space together.

That night, Bucky asks “Can you wake me up when you wake up?”

“Sure,” Steve says. He is cooking. He stirs the beans on the stove. “Any reason?”

“I wanna start going on runs with you,” Bucky replies. “I mean, if I can.” _Tell Steve_ , he thinks, but Steve turns and smiles at him so fondly. Something blooms in Bucky’s chest.

“Bucky, of course you can,” he says. For Steve, the weird shadow that has been hanging over them since the cemetery has been temporarily eclipsed. Steve shines. Whatever has been blooming beneath Bucky’s ribcage twists and wraps itself around his heart. Steve turns away, but he is glowing. Bucky takes a very deep breath.

\--

Bucky is whispering in his sleep. His voice is low, and dark. His words are thick and foreign. Steve is on standby.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Steve says when they are both awake. The sun is not yet up. They are getting ready to run.

“Sorry if I kept you up,” Bucky says. He stretches.

Steve shakes his head. “You didn’t keep me up.” This is a lie. “I just wanted to make sure you were sleeping alright.”

Bucky’s face is neutral, but his eyes are warm. “Steve, quit asking if I’m okay. It’s my job to ask you that.” He pauses. “Look, if something’s wrong I’ll tell you, okay?” This is a lie.

Steve doesn’t believe him, but he can’t be pressed to care because they’re together. They run at the same pace as the sun begins to rise. It’s exhilarating. Steve pushes it, but Bucky keeps up. It’s only when he gives it his all that Bucky falls back. Steve slows down, and Bucky passes him completely in determined silence. Steve has to stop because he is laughing so hard. It rings out across the silence of the early morning. It’s contagious. Bucky circles back and joins him.

When they get home, they tear their clothes off. “Shower,” Bucky murmurs. He takes off his shirt. Steve doesn’t even bother to look at the scars, simply grabs him and pushes him against the cold tile of the bathroom. They kiss. Bucky sucks on Steve’s long fingers, runs his lips against the pale skin of his friend’s stomach and further below. Steve gets closer, touches Bucky in all of the places that make him moan, places that not even the girls at the dance halls got to see. He winds his hand in Bucky’s dark hair. They make each other feel _good._

“There’s a place that I wanna show you,” Bucky tells Steve. “You’re gonna need to put on pants, though.” He punctuates his sentence with a wink and a devious smile that once belonged solely to the 1930s and 1940s. The two don hats and sunglasses, escape into the frigid air.

It is a Wednesday afternoon. The coffee shop is dead. Patrick is working; his sleeve is rolled up just far enough to see his scorpion tattoo. When they walk in, he smiles. He has just won a bet. Bucky knows. Reconnaissance.

“The usual?” he asks Bucky. Bucky nods. Steve raises an eyebrow. “And for you?” he directs at Steve.

Bucky orders for him. His delivery is smooth. He sounds just like he did at corner stores in Brooklyn, somewhere a long time ago. It plucks at Steve’s heart.

They get their drinks and sit in the corner. “Is this where you spend your time?” Steve asks. Bucky nods. He delivers a full report about the ongoings of the café to Steve. The backbone of his tale belongs to the Soldier – it is precise, robotic, organized, quick – but there is enough Bucky in the way he chooses words and describes things to put Steve at ease. It is like a human skeleton with flowers entwining themselves between the old, grey ribs, and around the long bones. Bucky is proud, you can see it in his eyes, and his pride is enough for Steve.

 _Maybe he’s fine_ , Steve thinks. _Maybe this is just him now._

He’s darker, dryer, quieter, but he’s still Bucky. The central being has emerged unchanged although the ornamentation is radically different. There are shades of the Soldier in his movements and thought patterns, and at times Bucky is dripping with the tar that Steve first saw when he pulled him from a lab behind enemy lines, but there is enough of the charm and genuine goodness left that keeps him unequivocally Bucky.

And he loves Steve. It is obvious from every glance and touch. Steve saw it in Brooklyn and told himself it was something else, saw it in Europe and told himself to swallow it. He thinks it existed in DC. He does not remember being pulled from the Potomac, but it was there. And it’s here, too.

That night, Steve holds him tighter. He listens to his heartbeat. He feels the rise and fall of his chest.

Bucky buries his face in Steve’s shoulder. He has red in his ledger. He has a very unique skillset. He hears Pierce’s body hit the floor.

He knows what he has to do.

(He should tell Steve, but he won’t.)


	31. i travel to your door

“This had better be important,” Tony Stark says from his end of the line. Bucky can hear shuffling behind him, through the echo of the phone.

Bucky licks his lips. “I need to speak with you,” he says. He forces his voice to stay flat, no inflection, and no accent. He is staring intently at the door to the apartment. It is painted pale cream. Steve could be back any minute.

“Barnes?” Tony asks. He nearly jumps an octave, but recovers.

Bucky swallows. “You told me to call you if I needed anything,” he says. His heart flutters in his chest.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Tony says. He sounds confident, but there is something apprehensive in his voice. “I told you to call if there was a problem with your arm. Seeing as how it’s been, eh, four-ish? months since I took that thing off, I’m assuming there’s nothing too important.”

Bucky closes his eyes and sighs. “I need to speak to you,” he repeats.

“Look, is Steve there?” Tony asks. “Can I talk to him?”

“No,” Bucky replies immediately. Too immediate. “You talk to me.”

There is a pause at the other end. “You want your arm back, don’t you?”

“We need to speak in person –“ Bucky begins.

“ – and Steve doesn’t know?”

“When can we meet?” Bucky finishes, trying to sound as intimidating as possible.

There is another pause. Bucky hates them. There is nothing to see, there is nothing to read. There is radio silence.

“I don’t know; my schedule’s pretty busy. I can’t just drop everything because Captain America’s psycho ex-boyfriend wants to hang out –“ Bucky’s heart skips a beat and he growls. “Did you just growl at me?” Tony asks. Bucky’s nostrils flare and his flushes. He’s glad that they don’t share a room. He thinks absent-mindedly that undercover work is not going to be for him.

“Does tomorrow afternoon work?” Bucky asks.

Another pause. “You’re not gonna leave me alone, are you? And hey, how did you get this number because –“

“No,” Bucky snarls. “I am not going to leave you alone –“

“Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?”

Bucky takes a deep breath. This is going all wrong. “No, I –“ He bares his teeth. “Tony, I need your help,” he says.

Silence. “Fine. Tomorrow afternoon. My place.” He hangs up. Bucky sets his phone on the table.

Steve comes home at 5:34 PM. They have a quiet evening. Steve sketches; Bucky reads. Steve sits easy. His features are smooth. His hands are dark with pigment. Bucky catches himself staring. He feels himself at the edge of some great sickness. Steve’ll know soon enough, he thinks. Might as well just tell him. He digs his fingers into his ribcage. He can’t bring his mouth to form the words.

“I’m going out,” Bucky says in the morning.

“When will you back?” Steve asks without looking up from his laptop. This is routine now.

“Before midnight,” Bucky replies. Steve’s mouth twists into a smile, but he still does not look. Bucky frowns. He presses his lips into the top of Steve’s head. It feels like heaven.

He has red in his ledger. He has a very unique skillset. He hears Pierce’s body hit the floor.

He takes the bus to New York. He takes a taxi to the Avengers tower. No one looks twice at him.

This time there is no special security pass. He walks in the building like everyone else. He should have thought this through. He knows that if he keeps walking, he’ll be able to figure out his way to Tony’s workshop. He’ll find something he recognizes, and his head will supply the rest. The trick is not getting caught.

“Sgt. Barnes,” a female voice says behind him as he is reworking his plan of attack. He turns.

She’s tall, thin, pretty. Blonde hair and bangs. He can recognize her, but he can’t place his finger on it. He narrows his eyes. The information swims up from the depths. Virginia Potts, head of Stark Industries. You met her at the press conference, he thinks. She shook your hand.

“Ms. Potts,” he says. She purses her lips, lifts her eyebrow and offers a kind smile.

“Tony said you’d be dropping in,” she explains. “I thought it’d be best if I came to pick you up. How was the trip?”

“Fine,” Bucky says.

“No Steve?” she asks. She gestures for him to follow her. He does.

“No,” he replies. They weave through hallways and board an elevator. She stands near the buttons, nearly blocks it with her body but faces him politely. Her hands are curled around a tablet. She keeps a minimum three feet distance between them at all times.

She’s scared of me, Bucky realizes during the long elevator ride. She keeps her tone even and her eyes bright, but she is wound tightly. She’s smart, he thinks, but the part of him that fought for the attentions of pretty girls like her at dance halls is hurt. They may not have been what he dreamt about at night, but he liked being liked. He swallows, feels bad. He offers a crooked smile and makes an effort to give her pleasant questions responses that are more than two words. From the way that she straightens her back he can tell that his efforts are having the opposite effect.

“He should be waiting for you,” she says when they reach the door of his workshop. “I’m sure JARVIS has buzzed him by now. You met JARVIS last time?” she asks. He nods. The door opens.

“Come in,” Tony yells. He’s dressed like he was before save for a t-shirt swap and a different pair of blue jeans. He is wearing goggles. Pepper motions for Bucky to enter. She and Tony make eye contact. Something passes between them that Bucky does not see. She leaves, and the door closes behind him. He jumps.

“Alright, Barnes,” Tony says, taking off the goggles. “You said you wanted to talk. Let’s talk.” He throws them aside and walks toward him. Bucky steels his jaw.

“I want my arm back,” he says.

“That’s what I thought.” Tony absent-mindedly picks up a piece of junk on the table in front of him and throws it to the side. “Any particular reason why?” Bucky takes a deep breath. “Hey, it’s a valid question. I’m not gonna give you your arm back if you’re gonna do something with it that’ll force me out of retirement. So, what’ll it be? Tired of jacking off righty, or did you get the urge to blow up a school?”

“There’s red in my ledger,” Bucky says. “There are some things that I need to do.”

“Ah,” Tony says, taking a seat at the edge of the table. “Now you sound like Natasha.” He picks up some circular metal hunk and flips it in the air. “Pray-tell what things do you need to do?”

“I want to help people,” Bucky says. He knows his voice is weak. In his head, this plan had spun out in thousands of directions. Now he cannot put words to them.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Help people?” He repeats. “Did you do officially choose the side of good? What are you gonna do? Volunteer to save the kids in Africa? Feed the homeless?”

Bucky swallows hard. “I had something else in mind,” he says.

“And Steve doesn’t know about this?” Tony clarifies with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” Bucky responds, glowering.

“Do you plan on telling him?” Tony asks, crossing his arms. “Or are you just gonna show up with two arms and hope he doesn’t notice?”

“I’ll speak with him,” Bucky says.

Tony pauses, looks Bucky up and down. He’s changed since their last meeting. He walks taller, straighter, doesn’t hunch. There are constant lights behind his eyes. He speaks with his whole body, moves like a person. His hair is styled, for God’s sake.

But there are still bags beneath his eyes and the promise of some dark weight pressing hard on his shoulders.

“So, what’ll it be?” Tony asks. “Are you gonna fly solo, or did some lucky intelligence agency pick you up?”

Bucky frowns. “I was hoping –“ He stops, stutters. Speaking with Steve comes easy. There is familiarity that drags him out of his shell, and an understanding that binds them together. “I was hoping to work under Fury,” he finishes. His voice is like stone.

Tony laughs. It reaches his eyes, but it rings out across the atrium harsh and mean. “Did he tell you that?” Bucky’s face gives him away. Tony purses his lips, picks up another piece of scrap from the table and plays with it in his hands. “You know, you didn’t strike me as the type to want to dress up and play superhero.”

Bucky sets his jaw, blinks. “I’m not,” he says. He sounds hoarse. “I’m just trying to help people.”

Tony hops down from the table. “So you chose the most violent way possible?” He opens his mouth to continue, but Bucky speaks loud and clear.

“Worked for you,” he says, meeting Tony’s eyes. Tony closes his mouth, retreats a bit.

“Why don’t you want Steve to know?”

Bucky thinks about phrasing, turns his words over and over again in his head. “He wouldn’t understand,” he settles on.

“Why not?” Tony asks. This is a challenge.

Bucky maintains eye contact. “He doesn’t know what it’s like to have something in your past that you want to erase.” Tony frowns, blinks.

“Fine,” he says, begrudging. “But if Cap comes after me it’s on you.” He drops what he was playing with and points a finger at Bucky. “And if you go darkside I will not hesitate to shoot a rocket right in your big droopy face.” He pauses for a moment. “Or his, if he won’t let go.”

Bucky’s lip twitches. “Deal,” he says.

Tony gives the briefest of nods. “Here, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on,” he says. He leads Bucky to the corner. He keeps his distance, like Pepper. Bucky thinks of last time, of dragging Tony down by his shirt, and his face flushes with shame.

“I tore your old arm apart,” Tony tells him, “So you’re not getting it back. Hope you weren’t too attached.” Tony stops at a table. Metallic fragments, pieces of shield coverings litter the top. He swings three screens over, opens them up to reveal diagnostics and diagrams. Bucky recognizes one of them as belonging to his file, albeit translated. The others are completely new. Bucky takes a step forward, closing the distance between him and Tony. Tony sidesteps away.

“You have designs for a new arm,” Bucky says, scanning the screens.

“Well, yeah,” Tony replies. “You can’t just give me a new toy and expect me not to play with it.”

“Do you have any built?” Bucky asks. Tony smirks.

“I have prototypes,” he says, closing the screens and walking around to the other side of the table. Bucky starts to follow him on his heels, but Tony speeds up and places a hand out. Bucky stays. “This is my favorite,” he says, pulling a large robotic apparatus forward. A metal arm is strung up on display. Bucky hadn’t even noticed it. “It’s super-strong, has state of the art cloaking technology. It adapts to heat, cold, pressure, you name it. Top of the line. Light-years ahead of your old one. Plus, I like to think it’s sleeker.”

“It looks the same,” Bucky says.

Tony huffs. “Everyone’s a critic,” he says. “What do you think?”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says.

“Fine? _Fine?_ ” Tony repeats. “What more do you want?”

Bucky shrugs again. “Nothing, really.” Bucky walks around the table to get a closer look. Tony walks away from him and stands on the other side of the arm. Bucky examines it. He has red in his ledger. He has a unique skillset.

He starts taking off his jacket.

“Whoa, whoa,” Tony says, holding both arms up and stepping back. “Striptease, what are you doing?”

“Aren’t we going to…” Bucky searches for the right word. “Install it?” he asks.

Tony laughs. “No,” he says. “Not today. Arm’s not ready.”

Bucky frowns. “Looks ready to me,” he says.

“Well,” Tony says. “It’s not. You put that arm on; you become an involuntary spokesman for Stark tech, and Stark tech does not hit the scene until it’s perfect.”

“But I need it,” Bucky says. Frustration is pricking at the back of his neck.

“Tough shit, your crusade can wait a couple of days. Listen to some sad music and talk to Steve, meet me back here on Monday, and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Do you know how long it took me to get out here?” Bucky asks, gesturing toward the door. He leans forward. Tony takes a step back.

“Not my problem,” he says, but his heart rate has increased. Bucky has him backed into a wall. Bucky notices, takes a step backward. Tony doesn’t relax, but he does edge to the side and slips out to walk back around the table. “Monday, three o clock.”

Bucky swallows. “Fine,” he says.

He takes the bus back home. He walks the streets in the cold. He gets back around seven.

Steve is reading at the kitchen table. The lights in the apartment are low. “Hey, Buck,” Steve calls. Bucky enter the room and brings the frigid air with him. “Where’d you go?” Steve asks, not looking up from his book.

I should tell him, Bucky thinks, but he says “Around.” Steve raises an eyebrow.

“How was it?” he asks.

Bucky throws himself down into the adjacent chair and kicks off his boots. “Exhausting,” he answers honestly.

“Why exhausting?’ Steve asks, sounding very concerned. He looks up and closes his book.

I should tell him, Bucky thinks, but he says “People.” He waves his hand.

“Did anybody bother you?” Steve’s gaze is true. His back is straight.

Bucky shakes his head. “They’re just everywhere!” he says. He hopes he sounds convincing.

He does. Steve’s lip twitches into a half-smile. “Hey, do you remember that talk we had?” he asks.

Bucky’s heartbeat speeds up. “What talk?”

Steve swallows. “The one about me seeing a shrink,” he says. He speaks loudly, but the words take a moment to come out.

“Oh,” Bucky says, breathing easier. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re right,” Steve tells him, placing the book down on the table. “So, I talked to some people at your place. I set up an appointment,” he says. His voice is low.

Bucky cracks a grin. “Steve, that’s fantastic.” He means it. Tony is forgotten. He feels warm from his chest to his limbs.

“Yeah, well,” Steve says. “I figured you deserved to know.”

Bucky is still grinning. Under the table, he presses his foot into Steve’s leg. “Of course, you idiot,” he says. “When’s the appointment?”

“Monday,” Steve says. Bucky stops.

“Do you want me to come?” he asks.

Steve furrows his brow. The thought had not crossed his mind. “No, you don’t have to come,” he says. Bucky breathes easy, leans back into his chair, feels guilt press against his chest.

“Hey, do you want to order pizza tonight?” Steve asks. Bucky offers a half-smile.

“You have no idea,” he says.

They order enough pizza to feed a village, and eat it all while sprawled across each other on the couch. They knock two movies off of their list. Bucky runs his hand through Steve’s hair, and Steve strokes Bucky’s wrist. They pile their pizza boxes in the kitchen and brush their teeth. It’s one in the morning by the time they’re finished. Steve dims the lights and takes a long look out the window. Outside, a car drives past, and a man is walking his dog.

Bucky waits for him in the darkened hallway.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Thought you were already in bed.”

“See anything interesting outside?” Bucky asks, leaning against the wall. The shadows cover him. Old habits.

“Nah,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Just some guy walking his dog.”

Bucky steps out of the darkness and drapes his hand across Steve’s shoulder, letting it carry all the way up the back of his neck until his fingers are pressed into Steve’s scalp. Steve leans into it with a small smile. Bucky lets his hand drop, drags it down Steve’s arm and grabs his hand, leads him to the bedroom.

In the dark they pepper kisses into each other’s skin until they are aching with need. Steve’s hands are on Bucky’s hips, and Bucky is buried into Steve’s neck. Steve is the only thing Bucky can taste, smell, feel. He is everything.

“I want to make you happy,” he murmurs into Steve’s flushed, warm skin. He thinks he can smell the ocean, the Potomac, the back-alleys of Brooklyn on him. He presses his lips into muscle and bone and tries to kiss away New York, DC, Europe.

Steve is breathless. “You do make me happy,” he manages to get out. Bucky feels solid in his arms. He runs his hand along scars, feels the remnants of gunshots, stab wounds, burns. He snakes his fingers in Bucky’s dark hair and gently pulls his head back. Bucky lets him. He gasps at the ceiling while Steve runs his lips down Bucky’s neck, willing that with each kiss Bucky remembers he’s safe and loved.

_I want you to be proud of me_ , Bucky thinks, but he doesn’t say it. His heart skips a beat and sorrow begins to cloud his ribcage. There is cool air on his face, and he closes his eyes. He wants to disappear back into Steve, into the white-hot center of the universe where they are joined. Steve wraps his strong arms around him, drags him back underneath the waves. Bucky comes with a shuddering moan. He clings to Steve while Steve finishes.

They pull apart, clean up, and come back together. They’re like Brooklyn tonight, Bucky wrapped around Steve, and Steve curled into Bucky. Bucky knows the imprint of some smaller body against his chest, but the memory doesn’t make his heart ache like it did in Europe.

“What was it like,” Bucky begins, “When you first got your body?”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks. He is stroking Bucky’s palm.

“After they pumped you full of that stuff,” Bucky explains. “I mean, how did you feel about it? You went from barely coming up to my shoulders to having a good two, three inches on me tops. That’s gotta be something.” Steve is thinking. His silence makes Bucky nervous. “I always wondered,” he continues, “Back then, too. But I didn’t ask.”

“It was –“ Steve starts. He pauses. “It was quite the change.” He takes a breath, furrows his eyebrows. “You know, I honestly don’t even really consider this body mine.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs. “I know that it’s permanent, but I guess I expect that one day I’ll just be able to take it off. Go back to Brooklyn. Be me again.”

“Do you miss bein’ small?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t miss being sick,” Steve says. “But it was kind of nice being small sometimes. I mean, it hurt when the gals and guys wouldn’t give me the time of day, but I liked being invisible sometimes. There was a lot less pressure. And if people liked you, they liked you because of you and not because of the way you looked. I miss that.”

Bucky frowns. “If you had the choice… ?”

Steve bites his lip. “I would – well, before it was – that’s my body. I knew that thing inside and out. And I wasn’t always happy with it, but we’d had twenty-five years to figure things out. This, sometimes – sometimes this feels like a science experiment. Like it’s on loan to me.” Steve rolls over to face Bucky. “If I had the choice now – and if I knew that everyone would be safe, and that I wouldn’t get sick – I think I would go back to the way it was before.”

Bucky smiles, mostly to himself. “Can you imagine you being small with me now?” he asks.

Steve snorts. Bucky laughs, too, it’s low but warm. He rolls forward and presses his head into Steve’s chest. Steve massages Bucky’s head until they are both asleep.


	32. told me that you had a dream

Monday proves to be the warmest day of the year, but Bucky still finds himself layered up before leaving. Steve is still in his pajamas, drinking coffee at the table while the oldies station plays. “I’m going out,” Bucky says.

Steve raises an eyebrow, looks up. “Be safe,” he says. Bucky nods.

“You’ll be okay today, right?” Bucky asks. Steve smiles, nods. Bucky’s fingers twitch. He frowns. He paces by the door. “Wait –“ he says. Steve looks up. Bucky can’t will the words out. “I love you,” he says instead, swallowing hard.

“Love you too, Bucky,” Steve says. It’s heartfelt, but his attentions are already turned to the computer.

Bucky’s brain provides the map to the building and the map of the building. He doesn’t wait to be picked up by Pepper or Tony, he simply follows the path she led him on before. The first empty hallway he turns down, he is greeted by JARVIS.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS says. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

Bucky frowns, unsure of the expectations. “It was fine,” he says. He continues to walk.

“I’ve notified Mr. Stark of your arrival. He may be a few minutes. I see that you’ve already learned the layout of the building.” Bucky nods.

The elevator ride is long and boring without company, and Bucky is nervous. He digs his fingers into his ribcage. “You there?” he calls out.

“I assume that you’re referring to me?” JARVIS asks. His voice makes Bucky jump.

“What are you?” Bucky asks.

“I am an artificial intelligence –“

“So you’re a big computer?”

There is a pause. Bucky wonders if he offended him. “To put it simply, yes.”

Bucky swallows. He regrets initiating this conversation. “Do you, uh, like being a computer?”

“I have no other frame of reference, sir.”

Bucky nods. “I was a computer for a while,” he says.

“Unlikely. You experienced unethical levels of electromagnetic therapy and biological experimentation, but at no point were you a computer. The case for you being a cyborg, however, could be made.” Bucky grimaces, but somewhere, he is eleven and thinking “Neat!”

The elevator ride deposits him at the correct floor, and he walks the familiar path to Tony’s workshop. The door is open. Bucky enters.

“Tall, dark, and creepy,” Tony says, pointing at Bucky and approaching him from the side. He keeps his distance, but his body language is casual. “Just who I wanted to see. Strip,” he says. “And get comfy, this is gonna take a while.”

Bucky peels his clothing off layer by layer while Tony preps. He hesitates at the last layer. Before, his skin did not bother him. Now the thought of Tony seeing everything gives him goosebumps. “Don’t get modest on me,” Tony calls. Bucky frowns and pulls off his blank tank top. Tony glances at the scars, but he does not let his eyes wander or sit.

He works silently. He is possessed, completely entranced. He has forgotten about Bucky. Bucky is a foreign concept to him now – there is only the immediate everything of what he is working with. At first, Bucky sits uneasy, but Tony’s movements are gentle and precise. Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He has red in his ledger. He has a unique skillset. He hears Pierce’s body hit the floor.

He hears the whirring mechanics of his old arm for the first time. His body is strapped into the chair and he is surrounded by scientists. They have the same white coats, the same dark hair. They are all copies of one original, and they make him sick.

Zola is there, but Bucky does not know his name as Zola. They took that from him. Zola does not have a name; he is simply The Man. There will be many Men for Bucky – handlers of different nationalities, races, creeds. Some will be kinder. They will all be cruel.

The Man is speaking to him. There is enough of Bucky left in the asset to understand it. His heart seizes violently, and his throat closes up. There is a weight on the left side of his body; sensory information that has been deprived for months is firing up for the first time again. He curls and uncurls his metal fingers.

And he grabs the throat of the nearest doctor. He will not become HYDRA’s lapdog. People are rushing to hold him down, but he is determined. He crushes a man’s windpipe with ease. The Man is across the room, frightened, shaking, pathetic.

Bucky is subdued with strong arms. They push him back into his seat. Although he has broken the restraints, they are able to hold him long enough to shoot a tranquilizer into his veins. He can feel it slink through his bloodstream. He has two minutes and eight seconds.

Bucky makes a last ditch effort to escape. He yanks his metal arm and the men holding it are thrown off. They scramble back to overwhelm him, but he is able to get a hold of someone’s wrist. He breaks it with a chilling snap. The man screams and drops to his knees. The bones and their jagged edges are on full display. He has one minute and fifty-seven seconds.

He swings his arm again, this time knocking back a second wave. The men on his right side are trying desperately to hold him down, but he fights. He backhands one in the face; he can feel the pressure of the man’s nose breaking through his metal arm and up into his body. It shudders through him like thunder. Maybe this arm is his chance to get out of here, if he can keep fighting.

The thought propels him to swing harder. Another wave falls. He swings again, but there is not as much force. His arm droops. His body sags. The white hot anger is beginning to fade. The tranquilizer continues to creep. He has one minute and twenty-two seconds.

He leans back and slumps into his seat. His arm hangs too heavy at his side, he lets it fall and it drags his body pathetically to the left. He can’t muster the strength to keep it up. His eyes are going glassy and he can feel drool begin to pool in his mouth. He watches slackjawed as they drag away the body of the man that he killed, as the man with the wrist is led out of the room, as every bit of hired muscle meant to subdue him keeps away and tends to their wounds. They swear under their breath in a language that he can speak but not understand. He has forty-two seconds.

His breath is coming in shallow pants. He knows that spit is dripping down from his mouth. His eyes are focusing and unfocusing. It makes him nauseous.

_Don’t let Steve see you like this_ , he thinks.

_Who is Steve?_ he thinks.

He has twenty-three seconds.

His eyes droop. They are wet with tears. His heart rate slows. He thinks, “There’s a man who is going to come and get me. I love him.” He forgets.

The asset’s eyes slide shut.

Bucky’s eyes open.

“Alright,” Tony says. It has been five hours. “Try it out.”

There is a weight on the left side of Bucky’s body; sensory information that has been deprived for months is firing up for the first time again. He curls and uncurls his metal fingers.

Tony stands tall and straight. He babbles specs and technology, explains adaptability and parameters. It doesn’t matter to Bucky because he can feel it, all of it humming and buzzing in his arm. “It’s connected to your brain,” he catches Tony say, but Bucky already knows. He flexes. He is dimly aware that Tony has stopped talking.

He looks up to see Tony standing uneasy a few feet away. His body language is on edge and every inch of his face is marked with tell-tale discomfort. Bucky swallows, furrows his brow. This is his choice, not Zola’s. This arm was made out of kindness, by request. There is no one here to kill. There is no one strapping him down. Steve loves him. Steve came and got him.

His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was the Winter Soldier. He is the Winter Soldier. He belongs to himself. This is his arm.

His lips twitch into a wild smile and he laughs. It is bright, clear. Tony frowns.

Bucky stands up, stretches his legs, begins to pull his clothes back on. Tony takes a step back and watches warily. “It’s not too late to add flames,” he says, sounding confident but with an unreadable expression.

Bucky humors him. “Flames aren’t my style,” he says. “You ever see the stuff that guys painted on the side of their planes during the war? That’s more me.”

“You know we could make it look like a real arm,” Tony says.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asks. He is flexing his arm one last time before putting on his jackets. He picks up a wrench and hits his wrist with it. The metal plating moves to anticipate the impact. It drives him wild.

“Disguise it. Like –“ Tony scrunches his face, scratches his neck, “A flesh coating. Be a lot less conspicuous. May be better for PR if you ever want to throw on a supersuit and save the world.”

Bucky swallows. He watches the lights shine off his arm. “No,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “This _is_ my arm. This is me.”

Tony nods. “Fine, fine,” he says. “But it is an option.”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky says with a note of finality. Tony closes his mouth. For a moment, it sends a thrill down Bucky’s spine, but then his heart sinks. He does not want Tony to be afraid of him. “Thank you,” he says.

“I’m not going to say any time because now I know that you will take it literally,” Tony replies. Bucky cracks a smile. Tony offers a smirk back. “Now get the hell out of my house,” he says. It is an echo. There is no malice.

Bucky finishes layering up and catches the last bus home.


	33. and we stayed the night

Bucky gets in at one in the morning. His head is swimming. The arm is humming with power at his side. He feels like he’s going to be sick. He should have told Steve.

The building is silent. He does not expect to see Steve up, but when he enters he finds Steve at his desk with a single lamplight.

“Where were you?” is the first thing out of Steve’s mouth. Before Bucky can reply, the second thing out of Steve’s mouth is “Bucky, do you have an arm?” The shock is apparent and very raw on his face.

Bucky’s mouth runs very dry. He gulps like a fish. “I meant to tell you –“

Steve is on his feet. “Is it a prosthetic, or –“ Bucky flashes the cool silver of his left hand in the light. He curls and uncurls his fingers. The low mechanic whirring pierces through the silence.

“Were you at Tony’s?” Steve asks. His eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open. He closes the space between them. Bucky backs into the door.

“Yes,” Bucky says. His throat is closing up. He shakes.

“Is that where you were? Bucky, why didn’t you text me? Or – tell me?” Steve asks. Every inch of him his coloured with hurt.

“Steve, I swear I meant to tell you but –“ Bucky tries. Words are spilling out very quickly. He sounds like he is pleading.

Steve swallows. “I’m not mad, Buck, I’m really not; I’m just having a hard time understanding why you didn’t –“ He takes a deep breath, collects himself. “Was Tony alright to you?” he asks. Bucky nods. He uses his right hand to cover his mouth as he tries to catch his breath. Steve casts a sympathetic gaze. “Bucky, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“I didn’t want to tell you.” The words spill out of Bucky’s mouth. He attempts to slip past Steve, but Steve’s words stop him.

“Bucky, you can tell me anything,” Steve says, and he sounds so, so honest. Bucky takes two steps back to get air, and then turns on his heel to pace.

“I should have told you, Stevie; I’m sorry,” he says, choking on his words. Steve watches him like a blur as he tears up the carpet and shakes.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” Steve asks. He stands forlorn in the dark. He catches Bucky give him a long, desperate glance, and then turn his attentions back to pacing. “This has been bothering you for a while,” Steve states. Pieces fitting into place. Bucky nods, eyes focused on the ground. It breaks Steve’s heart.

There is a long moment of silence that is only punctuated by Bucky’s footsteps and heavy breathing. Finally, he begins to speak. It comes out in choppy, broken sentences, but it does come out. “Steve, it was like I was – I was coming back. And I started noticing things, and some of it was good and some of it was bad, but it was – I was – it’s –“ He stops, slows down to catch his breath. His hands are balled in fists by his side. He looks strange to Steve with two arms.

“When I talked to Natasha,” he manages to say. He is concentrating very hard. His eyes glisten in the dim light.

“What happened when you talked to Natasha?” Steve asks. His arms are crossed.

“I am the Winter Soldier,” he says. “Everything out there-“ he points a finger out the window, toward the kitchen, “That’s _me_. _I_ did that.”

Steve frowns. “Bucky, we’ve already –“

“ _Steve_ , just listen!” Bucky growls. “Listen to me. Just listen to me, I’m not – I’m not coming at you in a burnt down hotel. I’m not catatonic on the couch. I am up here,” he says, pointing at his head. “And I am trying to talk to you.”

Steve bites his lip to swallow a sob. His eyes are red.

“I have got red in my ledger,” he says. His tone is even, his voice is hard. “I have a very unique skillset.”

Realization dawns on Steve and it makes him twist his face. It’s an involuntary movement. The look is like a knife to Bucky’s heart.

“Steve,” Bucky says, his voice cracking. “I need to help.”

“By doing what?” Steve asks. It is his turn for his voice to be hard. It is his turn to be like steel.

“Steve –“

“What are you going to do, Bucky?” he asks. He begins to walk to the side, begins to circle Bucky.

Bucky swallows, frowns, sneers. “Missions, Steve, I don’t know! Anything –“

“Missions?” Steve repeats. “Missions.” Dark clouds are hanging over him. He knows he should stop.

“Steve, look –“ Bucky starts, quieter.

“Did Fury put you up to this?” Steve asks.

Bucky frowns. “No, Steve, nobody did –“

“No,” Steve says.

“No what?” Bucky repeats, crossing his arms. He has begun to circle Steve as well.

“No, I will not let you go on missions,” Steve tells him. Everything about him is strong, straight, authoritarian.

“What makes you think you get to decide that?” Bucky asks. He curls his upper lip and narrows his eyes.

“I know you better than anyone,” Steve says. “And you are not ready to go on missions.” He steels his jaw.

Bucky smirks low and dangerous, and heart-broken. “No, Steve,” he says. His nostrils flare. He takes a deep breath and cocks his head. “No offense,” he begins. “But I’m not the guy you knew in Brooklyn.” It is an echo. It is cruel.

Steve breaks. His shoulders sag. He drops his voice. “Bucky, please –“

“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head.

“Bucky, if you want to help there are other ways –“

“Not for me.”

“ - you can volunteer, you can get involved in activism, there are –“

“Steve,” Bucky says. “There is nothing else for me. There has never been anything else for me.”

Steve stops, thins his lips, swallows. “Bucky, I don’t know why you think that you have to do this.”

Bucky bares his teeth. “I don’t ‘think’ that I have to do this, Steve. I know that this is what I have to do.”

Steve is at a loss. He hangs limp, on strings, like a puppet. “I won’t let you,” he says. It is a plea.

Bucky shakes. “Steve,” he says, his voice quieter. It has lost its bite. “You said that the only person I belonged to was me.” He is dripping with sadness. “I choose this.”

There is a heavy, suffocating moment of silence. Finally, Steve says “Is this why you wanted to run with me?” There is a low, desperate humor in his voice. It barely masks the very apparent hurt.

Bucky swallows a sob. “Steve, please.”

Steve nods, blinks a few times. “I can’t let you do this,” he says. His voice is calmer, stronger. “I think that you are making a huge mistake, and I don’t know if I can sit by and watch it happen.”

“What are you gonna to do?” Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs. “I dunno. Whatever I can.”

“Steve,” Bucky pleads. “I’m just trying to be good.”

“Bucky,” Steve says. “When are you going to learn that you’ve always been good?”

Bucky swallows a very dull laugh. “Aw, Stevie,” he says. You can hear his heart shatter as he speaks. “I don’t know who you think I am,” he starts. He is the very picture of sorrow. “But I’m not him.”

Steve frowns involuntarily. He looks at the ground and nods. His arms are wrapped tightly around his body.

Outside, a car whirs past.

“I think I should go,” Bucky says. Steve wishes the city would fall into the sea.

“Where will you go?” he asks.

“I’ll find something,” Bucky tells him. He pulls his jacket tighter around his body.

“Please stay,” Steve asks. Bucky can feel the force of his words, but he shakes his head.

He is halfway out the door when he stops. “G’night,” he says.

“I love you,” Steve tells him.

“I know,” Bucky says.

He turns and leaves.


	34. interlude iii

This is the only (other) real fight that Steve and Bucky have ever had.

It is about a girl.

\--

It is May, 1931.

Steve stands at 5’3”, weighs maybe eighty-five pounds soaking wet. His wrists are thin and his legs are gawky; if he were taller he would look like a walking scarecrow. But he isn’t, he is small. He can fold himself up completely, minimize the space he takes up and hide like a mouse. The whole of the human skeletal structure can be read clearly if he takes off his shirt, and there’s a twist in his spine that makes him walk with a slight abnormal cadence. He hates it.

He’s on the good side of thirteen, the side that promises the glimpse of an end to the teenage hell that he has recently found himself in. His fourteenth birthday approaches in two months’ time. His fingers twitch with excitement. He imagines growing taller, getting stronger, becoming a man.

Bucky has been fourteen for the better part of a year. He stands at 5’10”, shoulders squared; looking every bit of an adult save for the baby fat he has yet to shake and the soft, smooth roundness of his face. His lips are seemingly perpetually red and wet, and his swagger is starting to catch the eyes of any girl he comes in contact with. He offers a charming smile (it’s his father’s) and practices talking them up.

He’s doing that now. Steve is nursing an ice cream soda by the fountain in some dime store. It’s not much too look at, but it’s theirs, and it’s the place to be. Steve is tapping his finger on the glass while he watches Bucky. The girl Bucky’s with is a year older; Steve doesn’t know her name. She has longer dark hair and green eyes. Bucky laughs, and she laughs as well. Steve watches their conversation come to a comfortable end before she has to excuse herself. Bucky saunters back.

“I think I got a chance with her, Stevie,” he says. He is smiling, looking over his shoulder as she walks out of the store.

“Of course you’ve got a chance with her, Buck,” Steve says. He’s being honest, but there is some hurt behind his words – it was supposed to be just them here today. But now that Bucky’s back, sitting there on the stool, Steve breathes easier. They carve out the space together.

“Hey, Bucky!” someone calls. Steve can feel his heart sink into his stomach.

Bucky laughs. “Hey, Hillsy!” he says, throwing a hand into the air. Three boys approach. They are strong, tall, gruff. There’s a meanness to their scowls and a sly harshness to their movements, a street bred rebelliousness that exists deep in their bones. Their fists are red from fighting, and they’ve got splits in their lips and light bruises on their face.

Hillsy leans against the table next to Bucky. He’s the thickest of the three; possesses a sort of bow-legged superiority that would have made him a good high school football star had he been born in another time or place. He shares a given name with Bucky, and although neither of them use it, they see it as evidence of some sort of brotherly connection. “How ya doin?” he asks. “Any action ‘round here today?”

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. He wouldn’t risk it, not with the other two boys breathing down his neck. JB Collins has his long, lanky arm draped across the counter where Steve would be leaning if he had the choice. His dark hair falls in gentle curls, and his smile is crooked. Albie Cannon is using his great brick of a body to block any of Steve’s possible exit points. He has his sausage-like fingers perpetually balled into fists at his side, and he always smells like dog piss. Steve holds his breath.

“Who’s asking?” Bucky says with a wry smile. Hillsy laughs loud, throws his arm around Bucky. His hand almost hits Steve as it lands. Steve flinches out of the way. JB Collins watches him intently.

“Me and the guys were gonna go see if there was anything happening in this town tonight, you wanna come with?” Hillsy asks.

Bucky can barely conceal his excitement. He smiles big and stupid, tries to emulate the smooth slide of actors in pictures. “Not doin’ anything else,” he says, his voice dripping with quiet confidence. “What do ya say, Stevie?” he asks.

JB Collins picks at the back of Steve’s shirt. Albie Cannon closes the space between them. Hillsy’s lip twitches and he catches Steve’s eye. Steve gets the message.

“Actually, Bucky, I think I’ve gotta be headin’ home,” Steve says. He leans forward in his seat so JB’s fingers aren’t brushing against his spine.

“What!” Bucky hits the counter top with his hand to prove his point. “Steve, the night is young!” he says with a well-meaning smile.

JB gives a gentle pull at the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “My mother is expecting me,” he tells them.

“Steve, your mom doesn’t finish her shift at the hospital until ten o clock,” Bucky points out. He lifts an eyebrow.

Steve could groan. _Bucky, just help me out here_ , he thinks. “I’ve gotta do some things before she gets back,” he says. “I’ll see ya later.” He gives Bucky a reassuring smile, hops off the stool and scurries away. Albie allows him the space to leave. He can feel them all watching him as he exits the store, self-conscious of the way he moves and the amount of space that he occupies.

The walk home is short, but it feels like an eternity. Shame is dripping down the inside of his ribcage, and he wraps his skinny arms around his body.

The first time that he meets her, she is sitting on the rotting wooden steps leading up to his apartment. The first thing that he notices is the way that the light catches in her curly hair. She is huddled over, reading. Her skin is pale and dotted with freckles. One of her socks has fallen around her ankle. She twitches her nose and turns a page. Steve falls in love immediately.

He doesn’t realize that he is standing still at the front of the steps until she looks up. “Hi there,” she says with a bright smile. She has soft pink lips and speckled eyes. “Do ya live here?” she asks. He nods. Her whole body perks up. “Me too! My family just moved into the building.” Steve vaguely remembers his mother mentioning it. “What’s your name? Mine’s Ethel.”

He gulps for air for a moment before speaking. “I’m, uh, I’m Steve Rogers,” he is finally able to get out.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Thirteen,” he replies. He should ask how old she is, but he can’t bring his mouth to move.

“I’m fourteen!” She stands up. Steve’s mouth runs dry. She’s a kid, but growing up fast. Her breasts swell beneath her dress, and the growing curve of her body is evident. “I didn’t know if there was going to be anybody my age here. Are there any girls?” Steve shakes his head. She shrugs. “Aw, what a shame,” she says. He likes the way she twists her words in her mouth.

“What are you reading?” Steve is able to stammer out. He winces after he says it, in fear of it sounding strange or abrupt.

Ethel glances at the book. “You probably wouldn’t like it,” she says with a gentle, put-upon sigh.

Steve frowns. “I won’t know until you tell me what it is.”

She holds out the cover of the book _. Nancy Drew and the Mystery Lilac Inn._ Steve smiles.

“Is that the new one?” he asks. She raises an eyebrow.

“ _You_ like Nancy Drew?”

Steve nods. “I like the Hardy Boys. Nancy Drew is basically the Hardy Boys, except with a girl.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” she asks, placing a hand on her hip.

“Not really,” Steve replies. “If the mysteries are still good.”

Ethel’s formerly suspicious face breaks out into a big, stupid grin. “I like the Hardy Boys, too,” she says. “I think that I like Nancy Drew better, though.”

“I think that I like the Hardy Boys better. But I liked Nancy Drew a lot,” Steve confesses. “I only read the first three books, though.”

Ethel clutches the novel tight in her hand. “Would you like to borrow this when I’m done with it?” she asks.

“Sure!” Steve chirps. He catches himself, runs a hand through his hair, pretends to be Bucky. “I mean, yeah, that’d be swell.”

“I’m a fast reader, so I’ll probably be done with it very soon. Which apartment do you live in?”

“Three-A,” Steve replies. His chest flutters.

Ethel grins wider. She shows off all of her teeth. “I can’t wait until you read it; we can talk about the mystery!” she tells him. Steve runs her words over in his head, spends the rest of the day on the floor of the apartment drawing. He sketches the Empire State Building and tries to remember the pattern of freckles on Ethel’s face.

There is a knock on the door at seven’o’clock. It’s not a normal knock; this knock follows a specific pattern and rhythm, like a song. Steve jumps to his feet. He’s munching on a stale piece of bread, and his hands are dark with carbon and lead. Sunlight casts itself across the floor. He can smell soup somewhere in the building. He opens the door.

Ethel is standing, poised and ready with the book in her hands. Her sock is still somewhere around her ankle. Her eyes are bright. Steve very quickly wipes the bread crumbs from his face. “I told you I was a fast reader,” she says. She holds the book out to him.

“Thanks,” he tells her, mouth still full of food. He covers his face with his hand, tries to save his embarrassment. She notices, but doesn’t care.

“When do you think that you’ll be done with it?” she asks.

Steve shrugs. “When do you want it back?”

She raises both her eyebrows and shakes her head. Her curls bounce against her face. “It doesn’t matter!” she tells him. “You can take your time; I’m just bored to death with no one to talk to.” She offers a kind smile and then looks around. Steve is suddenly very embarrassed at the dull, sparse, yellowing atmosphere of the apartment, even though he knows that her’s is not much better. “Where is your family?” she asks.

“It’s just me and my ma,” Steve says. “She’s working.”

“What does she do?” Ethel asks.

Steve twitches his nose. “She’s a nurse.”

“Where’s your dad?”

Steve frowns. “He died before I was born.” Ethel nods. Her bottom lip is curved into a frown. Steve knows that he’s probably going to go to hell for it, but all he wants to do is kiss the polite sadness off her face. He swallows.

“My dad died before I was born, too,” she tells him. “My mom remarried though. He’s my uncle, but he’s also my dad.”

Steve nods. “Is it just you and your parents?”

“And my grandparents, and my brothers,” she finishes. There is a playful light behind her eyes. “And they’re _boring_.”

Steve laughs. It’s a gentle, flittering thing. Ethel laughs, too. They share a quiet moment looking at each other before she says “My mom’s expecting me to help with dinner, so I should be going.”

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Thank you for the book.”

“It is my pleasure, Steve,” she tells him. She even curtsies. The sunlight catches on the slope of her cheek, brings out the shadows on her face. She looks almost like a painting. Steve catches himself staring. She gives him a quiet, demure look, and then she salutes him like a soldier. She has a dumb smile on her face and marches back down to her apartment. Steve closes the door.

And spends the whole night reading it, laying across the hardwood floor until the sunlight disappears. He sits crosslegged on the kitchen chair and reads by candle light until his mother comes home. Sarah Rogers washes the death from her hands, shakes off of the dust. “What are you still doing up?” she asks. Her voice is hard, but Steve explains hurriedly and excitedly in hushed tones, and she finds that she can’t bring herself to be mad at him.

She allows him to read as she eats dinner, shares the food on her plate. Sarah Rogers watches her son pour over the novel. He is alive. He is breathing easy. He is excited because a girl is talking to him. She didn’t think that he’d make it past three months. Shadows dance on the wall, and she hopes that he will be happy.

There is one bed in the apartment, and they fall into it together. “Put that away,” she tells him, and he sets the book on the bedside table. She wraps her hard arms around his bony body. He waits until she falls asleep, and then wiggles out of her grasp. He can hardly see in the dark, but he counts himself in luck because the moon is full, and he sits in the window reading until the sun begins to rise. It is four in the morning when he closes the cover of the book and crawls back into bed.

An hour later, his mother is shaking him awake. He is a zombie as he washes his face, puts on his best Sunday clothes, and is dragged out the door to church.

The church is small, warm, and hot. Steve takes his usual position, back as straight as possible next to his mother on the pew. The wood is uncomfortable, and he’s sweating through his shirt, but the priest’s voice is so soothing, and the gentle breeze that wafts through occasionally is so relaxing that eventually his breathing slows. He slumps in his seat. His mother pinches him and he sits straight up.

She keeps her lips thin, refuses to look at him. He gets the message. He blinks hard a few times, enough to draw tears, and then repositions himself. He focuses on the back of the woman in front of him’s head. _Count the moles_ , he tells himself, but eventually his vision begins to take a back seat to the dull blankness in his head, and he finds himself dragged under again.

There is a very sharp elbow to his ribcage, and he jumps back up with a small squeak. A few people around him give him disapproving glances, but he doesn’t notice because there is a faint giggle from a few rows up an over.

He catches Bucky’s eye and offers a begrudging smile. Bucky has a hand clamped firmly over his mouth to keep from laughing. His eyes are bright and watery, and he is halfway turned in his seat to make eye contact. Steve rolls his eyes. Bucky raises his eyebrows. Both Sarah Rogers and Winifred Barnes gently and quietly smack their sons upside the head. They both stare straight forward for the rest of the service.

Afterwards, the church spills out into the street. Steve feels a rough hand on his back, is pulled into Bucky as he swings a hang around Steve’s neck. “Little Stevie Rogers falling asleep in church,” Bucky says. “And you thought you were so pious.”

“Lay off it, Buck,” Steve says, but he is smiling. “You sleep through half of the sermons you go to.”

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bucky says, bringing himself up to his full height in mock pride. He is dressed in his Sunday best, hair slicked back. It takes Steve’s breath away, but he won’t admit it for another eleven years. “What can I say, Stevie? I’m a bad seed.”

Steve snorts. There is a brief moment of silence between the two as they feel the sun on their backs, watch the church ladies mingle. “How was it with the guys yesterday?” Steve asks.

Bucky shrugs. “Hillsy almost got a girl to dance with him, but nothing else happened.” Steve laughs. “Honestly, Steve, I was home by nine,” he admits in a lower voice. Quieter still, and directly in Steve’s ear, he whispers “I helped my mom while she was sewing.” Steve laughs louder, scrunches his face with it.

“You should come next time,” Bucky says. “Probably make it more fun.”

Steve takes a deep breath, steadies himself after laughing. He can feel JB Collins pulling at his back. “Maybe sometime, Buck,” he says.

“Better be next time.”

Steve’s stomach feels like it is lined with lead. “Sure thing,” he says. He fans out the thin material of his shirt against the heat. “Hey, what are you doing today?” he asks. “Wanna see if they’ve got a hydrant open.”

Steve is expecting a resounding yes, the resounding yes he would always receive. The ‘what are you doing today?’ was more of a politeness, a steady fallback in conversation than an actual question.

So his heart sinks when Bucky says “Well, actually…” His voice is a drawl, long and drawn out. He watches the crowd, fans out his own shirt, wipes the sweat from his upper lip. It is cooler outside, but the heat of the church stays with them. “Me and some of the guys were gonna go play baseball. You can always come and watch,” he says.

Watching was great when Steve was younger, now the thought of him sitting on the sidelines as Hillsy and company beat the competition with a sort of macho, chauvinistic swagger is enough to make anxiety prick at the back of his neck. What’s worse is that he can see this scenario: stubborn Steve Rogers, tries to play despite his asthma and the scoliosis and the heart problems. Breaks his weak bones, or forgets how to breath.

_Hopefully I’d just die and not have to deal with Hillsy or JB seeing me like that,_ he thinks.

Steve pulls out of his head, cracks an easy smile. “Nah, Bucky, you go ahead. I should probably get back home and get some sleep.”

Bucky nods. He feels bad, Steve can tell. Steve doesn’t want Bucky to feel bad. Steve stands casually, stays smiling. “What kept you up so late last night anyhow?”

Steve thinks of Ethel. His smile stretcher wider, more genuine. “Reading,” he confesses. Bucky laughs.

“Christ, Stevie,” he says. He is tickled pink. Steve lets him be. Words on the page usually didn’t come easy to Bucky, they were slow to start in his brain and slower to pick up. Reading for school was hard enough; reading for pleasure was a foreign concept.

In 1944, he will be halfway through _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ when he realizes what he is doing. He leaves the book half-finished somewhere in France, too disturbed by the knowledge the HYDRA was developing their own super soldier serum, and that Arnim Zola stuck a syringe in his arm and pumped his bloodstream full of something that made him scream for hours.

The two stand around for a bit, crack jokes about falling asleep in church until JB Collins appears from the crowd and approaches them. He uses his willowy frame to step between Steve and Bucky, positions himself so that he cuts Steve out of the conversation as they all catch up. To Bucky’s credit, he continues to step back toward Steve. It is a war game. Finally, Steve admits defeat.

“Alright, I’ve got to head home,” he says. He takes a step back, throws hand in the air and waves goodbye. Bucky offers his own wave and a crooked smile, but his body is turned towards JB and his eyes only drift for a half a second before resting on JB’s long face.

Sarah has disappeared into the throng of people. Steve walks home alone.

“Steve!” he hears as his apartment is coming into view. He turns on his heel.

Ethel jogs toward him. She, too, is dressed in her Sunday best. She makes Steve’s heart do backflips. “Did you finish the book?” she asks.

His face breaks into a smile. “Yeah, I did,” he says. “It was great.”

She claps her hands together. “Wasn’t it just! What was your favorite part?” she asks.

The walk home is not as lonely as Steve thought it would be.

\--

Ethel is bright and brilliant. Everything she does is sunlight. Every smile is a win, every laugh is a victory. She lays next to Steve on the floor as they plan mysteries. “I’ll be Nancy Drew,” she says. “You be Frank Hardy.”

“I wanna be Joe Hardy,” he tells her.

“Okay,” she says. “You can be Joe Hardy.” He smiles.

They tear up the neighborhood. Ethel is not much interested in running, and Steve can’t. She spends more time speaking, or exploring. Steve follows her like a puppy. “This can be a clue,” she says, holding up a rusted skeleton key hidden in the long grass by the side of a building.

“A clue to what?” Steve asks.

Ethel narrows her eyes. “The secret of the, uh.” She glances up. “The empire –“ She looks inward, twists her mouth. “The secret of the Emperor’s ghost?” Solemnly, Steve nods. They make eye contact and shake hands. The adventure has begun.

“Sure have been spending a lot of time with that girl lately,” Sarah Rogers says one night. She is home early; the sun is still in the sky. She is sewing by the window. Steve is pouring over a journal page full of clues.

“She’s awfully neat,” he tells his mother without looking up.

“She seems very sweet,” Sarah says. “Does she get along with Bucky?”

Steve pales, sets the journal on the floor. Ethel’s influence is never ending, but it stops at the school door. She attends an all-girls Catholic school a few blocks down. Steve has never been more thankful in his life.

“Yeah,” Steve lies. “They get along just swell.”

In the morning, he hesitates before entering that big, black school door. The year is coming to an end. Summer is stretching out before them. Bucky swings an arm around Steve’s shoulder.

“Hey pal,” he says. For a moment, everything is alright. Then he follows it up with “Did you finish your science homework?”

They sit on the school steps as Bucky copies furiously. He speaks a mile a minute as he does, filling Steve in on every piece of gossip, every tale of drama and woe, what he did the night before. Three names are repeated often enough that Steve thinks Bucky sounds like a skipping record. In grammar class, he doodles a gramophone labeled ‘BUCKY’.

He stops when he is hit in the back of the head with a balled up piece of paper. Steve grumbles, picks it up off the floor and opens it. It is blank. He turns around to see JB Collins with a smirk on his face. Steve raises an eyebrow, sneers. Albie, adjacent to JB, cracks his knuckles. Steve rolls his eyes, gets the message and turns around in his seat, pouts for the rest of class. Bucky is three rows ahead of them. He never notices.

The strings that connect them grow looser and looser. _Bucky’s just doing what he’s always been meant to do,_ Steve thinks. The boys open up, accept Bucky into the fold. He’s handsome. He’s popular. Steve catches the four of them shooting the shit outside the dime store on Saturdays, watching them talk to girls at lunch. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’m going with the boys tonight,” Bucky repeats. “You can come if you’d like.” Bucky means it. Steve always says no.

This is the way that it is meant to be. Steve’s always known it, known it since the first time he met Bucky. He would eclipse Steve eventually, realize what a mistake he’s making being friends with a guy who’s shorter than half the girls they know, and whose body isn’t very good at the whole ‘staying alive’ thing. “Man,” Bucky would say someday. “What the hell was I thinking hanging out with little Stevie Rogers.”

But it’s not so bad, Steve thinks. Every space that Bucky leaves empty, Ethel occupies. At night, Steve mourns his loss acutely, but in the day time he chases ghosts and murderers through the streets of Brooklyn with Ethel at his side. She divides her time between her school friends and Steve. She doesn’t mention them to him, and he doesn’t say a word about Bucky to her.

“Bucky hasn’t been around lately,” Sarah Rogers says.

“He’s been busy,” Steve replies. His voice has a hardness to it that breaks her heart.

Down the street, Winifred Barnes interrupts her son. “Where’s Steve in all of this?” she asks.

Bucky furrows his brow. He’s been telling her about what Hillsy and JB did at the dime store that afternoon. “Steve?” he asks.

Winifred nods. “You haven’t mentioned him,” she says.

Bucky shrugs. “He wasn’t there,” he tells her. “Anyhow –“

“He hasn’t been around lately,” Winifred says, rocking back in her chair. Her eyes are very tired. She has three years.

“Nah, I haven’t seen him a lot lately except for school. I always ask him to do something and he says no.” Out loud, Bucky realizes that it pricks at his heart, makes something cloudy in his throat.

“Why does he say no?” Winifred asks.

“Dunno,” Bucky says. “He’s been acting weird lately.”

“Does he get along with your new friends?” Winifred asks.

Bucky considers. “Yeah,” he says. “They get along okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Bucky asks, but he knows, he knows it in the pit of his stomach.

In the morning, he throws on clothing and goes down to the dime store. He buys a soda while he waits. Hillsy’s supposed to meet him there, but he’s late as per usual. Bucky taps his fingers on the counter.

The door opens behind him and laughter floats in across the store. He’s not about to turn, but he recognizes it. Steve is holding the door open for a girl with red hair in a blue dress. She is giggling gently, and he is laughing as well. She is holding a book in her arms. Bucky cracks a smile.

“Stevie!” he calls across the store, throwing one arm in the air. They both turn to look at the same time, Ethel with an inquisitive turn to her mouth and Steve with wide, staring eyes. “How ya doin?” Bucky asks.

“Fine,” Steve says. The smile has slid off his face. Something about the way he carries himself denotes that he is intensely uncomfortable. Bucky doesn’t notice.

“Who’s this classy lady?” Bucky drawls. He holds out a hand to Ethel. She places hers in his, and he brings it to his lips in an action that is so over the top it makes Steve want to barf. It makes Ethel blush.

“Bucky, this is Ethel,” Steve says quickly.

“And you are?” Ethel asks.

Bucky sits up straighter in his seat, throws on a sly smile and says “I’m Bucky.” When there is no immediate reaction from her, he says “What, Steve never tell you about me?”

“Nah,” Ethel says. She is staring at Bucky’s lips, his eyes, the curve of his jaw. She can’t help it. “He didn’t say nothing.”

“What!” Bucky frowns comically, it shifts into a half-smile and he says “Stevie, what game are you tryin’ to play here?”

“I’m not playing anything,” Steve says. The hairs on the back of his neck are prickling.

Bucky shifts his gaze from Steve to Ethel; he leans against the counter and throws his head back, twists it so that he’s in some sort of suave, movie star position on his stool. “Well, I’m Bucky Barnes. How come I never see you around here before?”

“She just moved here,” Steve says at the same time Ethel says “I dunno.” Steve frowns.

“What are you two doing today?” Bucky asks. He takes a sip of his soda and swings his foot absent-mindedly.

“Nothing,” Steve says at the same time Ethel says “Oh, we’re investigating a mystery.” Steve rocks back on his heels. _Why God, why?_

“A mystery?” Bucky repeats. He throws Steve a smug, amused glance. There’s no malice in it, but it makes Steve wish that he had just died last winter from the fever.

“Well,” Ethel says with a smirk. “It’s kind of silly, but –“ And she goes on and on to Bucky, pulls out the journal, describes clues. Bucky humors her, asks the right kind of questions, smiles at the right times. Occasionally he catches Steve’s eye, lifts an eyebrow or chuckles to himself. It only stops when Hillsy and company enter the dime store.

“Hillsy!” Bucky calls out, throwing a hand in the air. Hillsy throws one back.

Steve wraps his hand around Ethel’s arm. “Okay, we’re going now,” he says to Bucky.

“Aw, don’t wanna see the guys?” Bucky asks. “I’m sure they’d love Ethel,” he says. There is a smile playing on his lips.

Steve throws a hard glare at his friend. “Ethel, let’s go see if there’s anything new,” he says. Steve’s worried that she’ll reject the idea, but instead she closes the journal and nods. Her curls bounce against her cheek.

“Nice meetin’ you, Bucky,” she says. She offers a coy wave. Bucky winks back at her. Steve pulls her away, pushes past JB Collins and Albie Cannon to get out the door.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Bucky?” Ethel asks on the way to the alley where they keep a running tally of clues in an old wooden box. “He seems like a swell guy.”

“He’s alright,” Steve says. Ethel gets the hint, understands. She wouldn’t want Steve to meet her best girlfriend, Josie. She won’t tell Steve about her boyfriend Eddie until it’s too late.

\--

Steve hits the red brick wall of the school building with impressive force. He winces. He’ll feel it in his right shoulder for days. There’s probably a decent sized bruise beginning to bloom beneath his skin.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” JB Collins says. Steve scowls at him. He’d return the blow, but there’s a Sister a few feet up and if he caught got fighting _again_ and on the _last day of school_ his mom would smack him so hard upside the head he’d probably go back in time a few years.

Besides, he doesn’t want to have to make Bucky choose.

“Watch where you’re going, Nancy Drew,” Albie Cannon adds. Steve’s heart drops. The Sister a few feet up notices them, points at JB and Albie. They leave Steve with a sneer. He curls his hands into fists.

He finds Bucky in the bathroom. It’s not much to look at, hollow and pale white, but it is empty. Bucky is walking out the door as Steve walks in. Steve could growl.

“Hey, Steve –“ Bucky begins, but he is too busy being grabbed by the collar and pushed against the cold wall tile. The heavy wooden door swings closed behind them. Bucky frowns. “Hey, is something going –“

“Why did you tell them?” Steve is able to get out. His face is beat red and he knows he’s shaking. Something black is twisting in his stomach, it reaches up to wrap around his heart, and follows the stream of blood into his limbs. He needs to be careful, or he’ll forget how to breathe.

“What?” Bucky asks. He could push pass Steve easily if he wanted to, but he stays backed up into the corner.

“Why did you tell JB and Albie about Ethel’s journal?” Steve’s voice trembles, but he manages to keep it steady enough.

Bucky furrows his brow, frowns. The wheels are turning in his head. Finally, he cracks an uneasy smile and says “Steve, c’mon.”

Steve lets go of Bucky’s shirt collar, wipes his palms on his shorts. He stands like an unsteady, miserable thing. Embarrassment and anger are coming off of him in waves. He fixes a steady glare on Bucky.

“Steve, it was funny,” Bucky tries to explain. It doesn’t come out quite right, his voice breaks halfway through and he squeaks the rest out. “You gotta admit that it’s kinda funny.”

Steve sets his jaw. “Oh yeah, Bucky, it’s hilarious. Look, I know it’s stupid and all, but it’s fun. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew that you’d just give me trouble for it and –“

“Aw, Stevie,” Bucky says. “I don’t really care about the mysteries; you can do what you want. You can tell me anything, don’t think that you can’t –“

Steve huffs. “Bucky, it’s not about the mysteries.”

“Then what is it about? Why are you so pissed at me all of a sudden?”

Steve bites the bottom of his lip. “Just don’t tell them anything else,” he manages to get out.

“Why not?” Bucky asks. Steve’s eyebrows shoot straight up.

“Why not?” he repeats. He could laugh. His heart breaks.

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, leans against the wall, thinks of his mother. “They don’t give you trouble or nothing, right?” His voice is quieter, lower.

Steve’s silence should be the answer, but after a moment he collects himself and says “No, Bucky. They don’t.”

Bucky nods. “Well, then good.” The connections tied between them have never been looser. Bucky can sense it. It makes him feel cold. “What are you doing after school?” he asks.

“I have to run some errands for my ma,” Steve tells him. It is the truth. He has a list in his back pocket.

Bucky swallows, nods again. “Alright,” he says. “Can I come with?” he asks.

“Aren’t you doing something with Hillsy?”

“Well, yeah but –“ Bucky flashes a smile. “I can always do something with them later.” He is trying very hard.

Steve offers a small smile. “Thanks, but you should go with Hillsy. It’ll be more fun.”

“Alright,” Bucky says. His heart sinks. “I’ll see you around then?”

Steve nods.

They see each other again three hours and twenty-seven minutes later, or rather, Steve sees Bucky in the window of the dime store chatting up Ethel. She is twirling her hair around her finger in a way that Steve can’t stop staring at, in a way that she never does when she’s with him. Bucky has his charming set on maximum. The two of them move in tandem, laugh in tandem, even glance at each other in tandem. Steve feels like he has forgotten how to move.

A sick, slick nauseous feeling brews in the pit of his stomach as he walks home. The apartment is empty when he gets in. He’s too sick to eat. He can’t bring himself to pick up a pencil and draw. His homework sits untouched at the kitchen table.

He lies on his bed and contemplates dying alone.

When he wakes up, the summer begins.

He washes, gets dressed, eats something, and walks down the block to Bucky’s apartment. It is a beautiful summer morning. Steve sees black.

In hindsight, he supposes that he was lucky to catch Bucky leaving his apartment when he did. If not, he would have probably lost the gall necessary to say “Bucky, you stay the hell away from my girl,” in the gruffest possible voice he could muster.

Bucky frowns, lifts an eyebrow. “Good morning to you, too,” he says. The confusion is apparent on his face. “Steve, I gotta tell ya I don’t know what you are talking about at all.”

Steve pouts. Not the response he was expecting. “You know damn well what I am talking about!” he says.

Bucky thinks. “Ethel?” he finally manages. “Ethel’s your girl?” Steve doesn’t reply. Bucky shrugs. “Good job, Stevie. She didn’t mention you two were, uh, a pair though.”

Steve frowns. “Well,” he says. “We’re, uh, not really.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. He crosses his arms, cocks his head. “Then is she really your girl?”

Steve’s fingers twitch. “Bucky, you know what I mean.”

“No, Steve, I gotta say that I really don’t.” Bucky shrugs. “Dunno why you’re so mad.”

“Bucky, she’s _my_ friend,” Steve hisses. He points at his chest as he does, furthers the motion.

“What, and does that mean that I’m not allowed to be friends with her?” Bucky asks. There is a lilt to his words that Steve doesn’t like.

“Yes!” Steve says. “Bucky,” he continues, his voice harder. “I want you to stay away from her.”

Bucky raises both his eyebrows. “Steve, what is your problem?” he asks.

“You know exactly what my problem is, Bucky.”

Bucky considers. He does know; he’d be stupid if he didn’t. But he is playing devil’s advocate. He is parroting the behavior of his newfound friends. In 2015, he will remember the fight and feel nothing but shame.

He says “Look, Steve, I’m not gonna stay away from her if she’s not your girl.”

Steve heaves a heavy sigh, and says “Bucky, please. You could get any gal on the planet. Just back off okay.”

Bucky swallows. “Steve, how do you know she even likes you?”

Steve frowns. “I just do, okay?”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Steve stands up straighter. “I do.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “Well, until she’s your girl, Steve, I’m gonna have to say that the playing field is open.”

“Bucky, you don’t even like her!”

“How do you know that?” Bucky asks. “She’s a swell girl, real pretty to look at. I mean, a bit embarrassing but -” Steve glares. “Steve, you can’t say she’s your girl unless she is; it’s just false advertising.”

Steve takes a deep breath. He looks at the ground, then at the building. There is a bird calling around them. They listen to the sounds of the city. “Fine,” Steve says. “I’ll make her my girl. Then will you back off?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “If she’s your girl, she’s your girl. But if you can’t get her, and it turns out that I can, you gotta back off.”

Steve has an intense sort of resolve about him that Bucky has never seen before. It makes his bones sharper, makes him look on more intense. Every inch of him seems dangerous, despite his size and frame. “Fine,” he says. His voice is dark, and harsh, reality’s response to the low fakeness he started with. It sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine. Makes his dick twitch. He swallows hard.

“Fine,” Bucky replies, weaker. Steve stalks off.

It is June, 1931.

\--

Steve uses the last of the money he has to buy a red rose from the local florist. The girl behind the counter is older than him. She is dressed in grey, and her dark hair is pulled back into a tight braid. She smiles to herself as he pays. _He is cute_ , she thinks _, like a puppy_. One day he will be very handsome, and some girl will be lucky to have him. She gives him a discount and risks her father scolding her later. He never does.

It is Monday, a half hour before noon. Steve hides the rose beneath a wooden crate in the alleyway he and Ethel have decided to call a home away from home.

Twenty minutes later, she finds it. “Steve!” she says with a gasp. “Look! A clue!” Steve is humming with excitement.

“What do you think it means?” he asks.

“A red, red rose,” she begins, holding in her hand. She is thinking intensely. Steve can see the wheels turning behind her eyes.

“A crime of passion?” Steve suggests. Ethel’s formerly straight face breaks into a wild grin.

“A crime of passion!” she says, eyes wide and body animated. Steve smiles inwardly.

Ethel thinks about the rose for the rest of the day. She and Steve part once the sun has passed its peak in the sky. She catches a movie with Eddie. After, her mother sends her to the dime store with a list of things to buy. She considers the crime in her head as she walks. There’s a bounce to her step.

Bucky sits outside. He has his hands in his pockets, legs sprawled out. Hillsy is leaning on his left. JB Collins is leaning on his right. Albie Cannon is cracking his knuckles on Hillsy’s other side. They make her nervous. She attempts to look straight ahead and avoid them, but Bucky says “Hey Ethel,” with a smooth smile. Hillsy looks her up and down.

“Hi Bucky,” she replies, fear assuaged for the time being. She hadn’t realized Bucky was there. She likes Bucky. He’s nice, even if he doesn’t think he is. He makes her laugh. His smile makes her melt.

“What brings you to the dime store on this lovely summer afternoon?” Bucky asks. His words are well-picked. JB Collins starts to snicker. Bucky elbows him, and he stops.

“Errands,” Ethel replies. The other boys make her nervous. They are wolfish. She dislikes the way that they look at her. She wishes Eddie were there.

“Ah, what a shame,” Bucky says. “Pretty girl like you stuck running errands on a beautiful day like this.”

Ethel’s ears burn red, and she giggles. “It’s not so bad,” she tells him, because it’s not – her head is swimming with ideas that she’ll report back to Steve with.

“Got something to look forward to?” Bucky asks. He shoots her a sly smile. He is getting good at this.

“Somethin’,” she tells him. Were they alone, she would have revealed the rose, the plot, the plan. But Hillsy’s got his eye on her. She thinks he looks mean.

“Would that somethin’ be gettin’ ice cream with me tomorrow afternoon?” Bucky asks. His delivery is smooth, practiced. He runs a hand through his hair.

She frowns for a moment, smoothes out the folds of her dress. His intentions are murky to her, and if they were alone she would take the initiative to ask if it was meant to be a date. But they are not alone, and the other boys are boring holes into her. “Sure,” she says, and she tells herself that they’re just going as friends.

Bucky smiles. “Pick you up at three?” he asks. JB Collins scratches his neck. Ethel nods again. “See you then,” Bucky says. He flashes her another dazzling smile. It makes her knees go weak, but she steels herself. Eddie would not be happy, she thinks.

She rushes into the store, rushes out. The boys watch her walk away. Hillsy, JB and Albie watch for the curve of her ass beneath her dress. Bucky thinks about Steve.

Ethel returns to her mother with the spoils of her journey. She is buzzing with – something. Her mind is elsewhere, a million miles away. Her mother raises an eyebrow. She has a glimpse of the idea, and small fraction of what is happening.

_That Steve Rogers is a good kid_ , she thinks. He ain’t much too look at it, but he’s respectful, and he treats her daughter like gold. Nicer than that awful Eddie she’s been seeing from their old building. Steve reminds her of Ethel’s father. He died of the Spanish flu in Europe, thousands of miles away from the Lake Michigan coastline where he was born, where he wanted to be buried. They got a letter in the mail about it. She thinks of reading the letter, rereading the letter, cross-referencing the letter, re-reading the letter again.

She suggests Ethel invite Steve over for dinner.

Steve is alone in his apartment when she knocks. He has been drawing; his hands are covered in black carbon. Ethel poses the question. Steve nods.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the mystery,” Ethel tells him as they walk to her apartment. Steve thinks that he has scored.

Ethel’s apartment is as small as his, but more packed. It is hectic, brimming with life and activity. It is like a whirlpool – Steve gets caught in it, is dragged under with the rest of them. Within twenty minutes he is being taught how to properly shake hands by Ethel’s grandfather while Ethel’s stepdad digs out his own sketchbook from a chest. Her brothers climb on him, and her mother dotes, and it is the best meal that he has had in months.

After they clean up, Ethel and Steve lay beneath the table. The wooden floor is hard, but cool. The apartment hums around them, but they are separated by a thing, white table cloth. It is enough.

“The crime of passion is a lover’s quarrel,” Ethel tells Steve. They are on their backs, heads rolled to face one another. “That’s why there was a rose. It was laced with poison. They were flamenco dancers. When she put it in her mouth, she died.”

“Why did he kill her?” Steve asks.

Ethel thinks. Her lips are pursed. “I dunno. Maybe she was in love with another man.”

“No,” Steve says immediately. “No. She loved him.”

“Then why did he kill her?” Ethel asks.

Steve thinks. He furrows his brow. “Maybe she knew something she wasn’t supposed to know?” he offers.

Ethel nods quickly. “And he was killing her to protect her!”

“Genius!” Steve says, leaning up on one elbow. Ethel follows in suit. They give each other a wild look, before her youngest brother comes toddling under the table with them.

Steve goes home. Ethel sleeps restlessly. In the morning, when she wakes, she helps her mother clean the apartment. At 1:30, she begins to clean herself up. At 2:52, she is sitting eagerly on the apartment steps. At 3:04, Bucky Barnes comes into view.

His hair is slicked back, and he’s dressed as fashionably as he can be. His pants are a little too short, and his sleeves are a little too long, but he carries himself with confidence and poise. She thinks that Bucky’s going to attempt to put his arm around her, but he keeps it at his side. She is thankful for that.

The conversation is stilted. She looks at the ground a lot, giggles sometimes. She’s nervous, Bucky knows. Finally, he asks “So how are those mysteries goin’?” She unwinds.

“Just swell! We deduced that it was a lover’s quarrel – a crime of passion!” she says. Bucky frowns.

“You and Steve, that is,” he says.

She nods. “We don’t really understand the motive yet, but the evidence is undeniable.” She turns on her heel to walk backwards, facing Bucky as she talks. “We found a rose at the scene of the crime.”

“A rose, huh?” Bucky asks.

“A red rose! We’re sure that it was laced with poison.”

“Why was it laced with poison?” Bucky scratches his neck.

Ethel shrugs. “We don’t know yet,” she tells him. “But they were flamenco dancers. So when she put the rose in her mouth, she tasted the poison and died!”

This is where Bucky thinks for one moment, maybe he should stop this. Maybe she is Steve’s girl. Maybe he should let this whole thing go. But he can’t. There is a stubbornness in his head, a jealousy at the pit of his stomach that he doesn’t quite understand.

They approach the ice cream parlor, and her steps become quieter. They don’t speak as they enter. They exist on different wavelengths. Their attempts are usually futile. They split an ice cream sundae. “How’d you meet Steve?” Bucky finally asks, because it is the only thing that will get her to open up.

“Well, you know we live in the same building,” Ethel tells him. “I was reading on the steps, and he asked me what I was reading.”

“You like books?” Bucky asks. Ethel nods.

“I love books,” she tells him. She sounds enthralled. “Do you like books?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not really,” he tells her. He catches her frown a little. This is not going well at all. “What are your favorite books?” he asks. “Maybe I’ll read ‘em if you like ‘em.”

This gets her going. She speaks a mile a minute. Bucky slides in and out of listening, he nods when appropriate and smiles when necessary. Mostly he eats the ice cream. “I wanna be a mystery writer,” she says, leaning forward.

“Is that why you do those mysteries with Steve?” Bucky asks. _Steve_ , he thinks. All he wants to do is go home and talk with Steve. He hasn’t really been able to talk with Steve in forever. He should quit this stupid game, give it up. Admit he was wrong. Maybe forego seeing Hillsy and the guys to spend a warm summer day getting into trouble with Steve.

When he tunes back into the conversation, Ethel is discussing a book that she wants to own. She’s cute, Bucky thinks. She’s got all the right parts in the right sizes in the right places. Hillsy’s been talking about her tits nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. Bucky doesn’t see what the big deal is. It’s starting to weigh on him. He notices the hard curve of a man’s jaw, but not the soft curve of a woman’s hip. He digs his fingers into the table.

“I’m gonna get you that book,” Bucky tells her. Ethel raises an eyebrow.

“But Bucky, it ain’t cheap,” she says.

“I have my ways.” He cocks his head, grins. Tuesday night comes to a close.

Wednesday morning finds Steve and Ethel in their alleyway. “We’re gonna act out the crime,” Ethel says.

“Why?” Steve asks.

Ethel kicks a crate out of the way, giving them space. They are completely secluded here. It’s nice. It’s peaceful. “I read it in a book,” she says. “It’ll help us get into the heads of the dancers. Maybe it’ll help us find a motive.” Steve doesn’t really buy it, but Ethel grabs him by his hands and pulls him close.

They are no longer Steve and Ethel. They are passionate flamenco dancers, caught in the inner workings of something neither of them can comprehend. Ethel leads. She adds flair to her movements. She is playing a role. She puts the rose in her mouth and presses her body against his. It is the first and only time that Steve will dance with a girl. When he’s fifteen, he stops counting it all together.

Ethel looks at him with bedroom eyes. They are put-upon, she is acting, but they make Steve’s heart swell. His hands are sweaty. Ethel’s are clammy. She is inches taller than Steve, and the height difference is more apparent so close. Neither of them actually knows how to dance. Ethel breaks for a moment, starts giggling. Steve follows her. They are both shaking with laughter as they finish. Ethel dies dramatically, whips the rose of out her mouth. She falls to the ground. The rose lands beside her.

Blocks away, Bucky scrambles for money to buy Ethel’s book. “Try looking for work around the building,” Winifred tells him. He does.

He returns home at seven at night, covered in dirt and sweat. His shoes are ruined and caked with mud, his shirt is dripping wet and torn at the side, he smells like fruit and horse shit. There’s a haunted, dead look in his eye. Winifred wants to yell at him, but she finds that she is laughing too hard to say anything. “James Barnes, what on earth did you do?” she asks. He doesn’t speak, tries to step into the apartment. She stops him.

Outside, she dumps a bucket of water on his head, throws him a rag to wipe the filth and the scent away from his skin. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about your shoes,” she tells him.

“Don’t worry about it, ma,” he says. “My old ones still fit.”

“You’re going to get blisters,” Winifred says. Bucky is scrubbing furiously at the back of his neck, at his hands. They are dyed blue and purple for some reason. She lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t do anything God wouldn’t want you to do, did you?” she asks.

Bucky laughs. Winifred gives him a stern look. “No, ma,” he tells her. “I didn’t.” He is telling the truth.

He changes his clothes. “I’ll see if I can save your shoes,” she tells him. She knows she can sew up his shirt. The dye has faded from his hands, but there is still the imprint of the hue. He collapses, exhausted on the sofa. “Did you make enough money to buy that girl her book?” she asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “Going back tomorrow,” he says.

Steve’s hands are stained, too, stained black. He works by the fading sunlight, and then candle light, until his mother comes home, and he puts his sketchbook away. It’s a masterpiece, he thinks as he looks at his art. The best work he’s done yet.

The moon peaks in the sky, the sun rises, peaks, and sets. Bucky stumbles home again, this time with green paint on his cheek, soot behind his ear and cat hair coated on his dark pants. He and Winifred rinse and repeat. He is stoic as he cleans himself up. “Did you make enough money to buy that girl her book?” Winifred asks again. He narrows his eyes and cracks a small, low smile.

The rest of the night, he is pouring over a notebook. Winifred catches him speaking under his breath at times. “Guy at one of the odd jobs today told me girls love poetry,” he says, when he is sick of her pacing near him in an attempt to sneak a peek at what he is doing. “So I figured I’d write a poem.” Winifred raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

A block down, Sarah Rogers watches her son work in silence. He’s almost finished. She prays that whoever he is pining after returns his affections. She was sickly, too. Boys did not often come a calling, and she watched her sisters court them with ease as she hid in the corner with an anatomy book. She married the first one who showed interest. He was kind to her. He made her feel beautiful, gave her a son and died of mustard gas.

Even further away, Ethel and Eddie sit on a blanket on the roof of her old building. They watch the stars twinkle into view. She tells him about Steve. Eddie’s mouth is thin, and he answers her with a grunt. “Aw, Eddie,” she says. “You don’t have to be jealous. Steve’s just a friend. Besides, he’s tiny. He’s got nothing on you.” Eddie curls an arm around her. Wheels are turning in his head.

Everything is set in motion.

It is Thursday, June 4th, 1931.

\--

It is Friday, June 5th, 1931.

Ethel Mudgett is far from the only one in the dime store; it is packed with people all trying to hide from the last fading rays of the sun. It was like that when she entered fifteen minutes ago, sock around her ankle and journal clutched tight in her hands. It is like that now that she is sitting on a stool, sipping on a Coca-Cola and tapping her fingers on the leather-bound cover of the book she keeps as a talisman. She sneaks a glance at the clock on the wall. It is 6:15 PM. Steve was supposed to meet her there at six ‘o’clock.

_He’s not standing me up_ , she thinks, _because we’re not like that_. But that’s how she feels. She wallows in it, tries to think of a sad or clever turn of phrase about it to write down in a poem later that night.

In the next ten minutes, the door behind her is going to open three times.

The first time, Hillsy and the boys spill in from the street. She only half turns to look in the hopes that it’s Steve, turns back around when she sees that it’s not, and then turns around again when the volume of their laughter keeps her from retreating back into her head. She means to shoot them a glare for ruining the peace of her mopey contemplation, but she is caught off guard by their approach.

“Hey Ethel,” Bucky says. As the group makes their way over, he comes in to lead them. Hillsy falls back, let’s Bucky take over. His body language is casual, but there is power behind him in the form of three scary-looking boys. He doesn’t seem to notice JB’s wandering eyes, or the way that they unfold themselves until they surround her. He smiles earnestly. She wonders if he knows that there is a smudge of forest green paint on his left ear.

“Hi Bucky,” she says. “What’s up?”

He takes a place on the stool next to her and slides his arm across the counter until he’s leaning too close. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says. She does not know if she likes this.

The second time that the door opens, it is Steve. He is holding a red rose in his left hand and a worn leather book in his right. His shoes are polished, and he’s wearing his Sunday best (Ethel knows because she’s seen him in it before). There is a low-key flutter of panic in her chest.

There is a low-key flutter of panic in his chest as well. Hillsy and the boys are draped over her like spider webs. He makes eye contact with Bucky. They both know that it’s now or never.

Bucky steels himself, turns away from Steve and back to Ethel. “Hey, so I had a great time the other day,” he says.

“Did you?” Ethel asks. She is nervous. Something beyond her control is building here.

“Yeah, and I remember what you were saying about that book. So I picked up something special for you,” he says as he slides the book across the counter to her. Her eyebrows shoot to the ceiling.

“Bucky, how did you get the money!” she squeals, grabbing the book with both hands.

“I have my ways –“ he starts, but he’s cut off by Steve, now standing directly front and center. His legs are shaking, and his palms are sweaty, but he is looking straight ahead with the kind of conviction that will make him an American icon for seventy years.

“Ethel,” he says. She snaps up.

“Hey, Steve,” she says. “Where were you?” If she’s being honest, her goal is to get Steve and leave the dime store. But his feet are planted firmly.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says. He was talking to himself in the bathroom mirror, repeating what he was going to say over and over again, but he won’t admit that to Bucky until they are laying in a trench together somewhere in Europe. “Ethel, I have something to ask you.” His voice is strong, commanding. It makes something feel warm in the pit of Ethel’s stomach, in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. They both swallow.

“Actually, _I_ have something to ask you,” Bucky says to her, cutting Steve off from continuing.

This is when the door opens a third time. The swing is wide, and the shadow he casts is long. Eddie steps into the dime store with heavy feet, all 6’3”, 240lbs and eighteen years of him.

“Eddie?” Ethel shouts.

It takes a moment for Eddie to absorb everything. Ethel on the stool, surrounded by guys. One with his arm on the counter around her, another holding roses in front of her. He grits his teeth. Jealousy and anger drip down the back of his throat.

“Ethel, what the hell is this?” he asks.

“Who’s he?” Bucky asks quietly. It is a sentiment shared by everyone in the general vicinity.

“Eddie, I swear it’s not what it looks like –“ Ethel starts. Panic grips her body. She feels like she’s going to vomit.

“What the hell are you doing around my girl?” Eddie barks at them. The dime store is at rapt attention.

“Your girl?” Steve and Bucky managed to get out at the same time. Their mouths hang open. They take a look at Eddie, a look at Ethel, a look at each other. The strings that bind them pull tight. They both choke out a shared laugh.

No one else is laughing. Eddie advances. Hillsy, JB, and Albie abandon their positions at Bucky’s side and stand on the outskirts, watching. “You with the flowers,” Eddie growls. “You botherin’ my girl?”

“No, sir,” Steve says. Eddie looks him up, down. Sneers. Grabs Bucky by the collar and hoists him off his seat.

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky starts. “Hey there big fella –“ he starts, mouth flying off the handle with nerves. Steve jumps to his feet, wiggles himself between the two.

“Okay, okay,” Steve says. His eyes are wide. “It was me. I’m sorry; I didn’t know she was taken.”

“Steve, what are you doing?” Bucky hisses, still hanging.

“I’m not gonna let you get beat up for me,” Steve tells him.

“But I was trying to ask her, too!” Bucky points out. His voice is low, shaky.

“No, you weren’t,” Steve says, voice louder and harder. He turns to Eddie. “I was trying to step in on your girl. I can prove it,” he says, grabbing the sketchbook. Eddie watches as he turns to the pages, flips his masterpiece. Steve and Ethel as flamenco dancers. She has a rose between her teeth. Behind him, Ethel’s heart leaps to her throat.

“Aw, Steve,” she starts. Eddie silences her with a glare. JB Collins chuckles low. Steve’s face burns bright red. He wants to sink into the earth.

Bucky takes the brief moment of silence to kick Eddie in the shin. Eddie drops him, and he lands on both feet. “C’mon, Stevie,” he starts, grabbing Steve by the arm, but he’s stopped by Eddie’s hand on his collar again. Eddie curls his hand into a fist, swings back, and nails Bucky in the face. Ethel shrieks. Steve growls, digs into Eddie’s side and shimmies up onto his back, scratching and biting along the way. Eddie shakes him off with ease, grabs him by the collar and swings hard into his face.

The two end up on the floor together, blood spilling crimson from their noses. Bucky makes eye contact, offers a shaky smile as the owner comes out from behind the counter.

They all end up thrown out on the street.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, hands shoved in his pockets on the way home.

“You don’t gotta be sorry,” Steve tells him.

“Yeah,” Buck says. “I kinda do.” He pauses. His left eye is swollen up real good, and there’s blood in his teeth, but otherwise he is alright. “I was a real cock about Ethel.”

“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend,” Steve says, looking at the ground.

“That’s not the point,” Bucky tells him. The sun has almost completely set. Dusk is falling over the city. “I knew you were warm for her, and I shoulda backed off. You were right; I didn’t even like her.” Bucky swallows hard, keeps his head down.

Steve shoots him a gentle smile. His nose is probably broken, and his face is going to be bruised for weeks, but it’s far from the worst fight he’s gotten into. Besides, there’s blood under his nails that tells him that not all was lost. “Thank you for admitting it,” he says.

Bucky smiles sadly, snorts. “You know, we went on a really bad date,” he says.

“You did?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “It wasn’t even really a date. We went out for ice cream.” Bucky pauses, thinks back. “It was the worst, Stevie. She talked about you the whole time. I ate the whole sundae by myself because she was talking so much.”

Steve smiles. “Did she – did she mention she had a boyfriend to you?” he asks.

Bucky laughs. “Not at all,” he says. “And one like that, Jesus, Stevie.”

Steve laughs, too. “Right, where did she even find a guy like that? He had to be what – twenty?”

Bucky winces, he was smiling so wide that it hurt his face. “I would have never guessed.”

“Me either,” Steve says. “She didn’t say a single thing about it.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I hope she’s okay. Wouldn’t wanna be around a guy like that right now.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bucky says. “I don’t think she’ll be going home with him, I mean.”

Steve nods. He sighs. “I’m so embarrassed,” he admits, his voice quiet. “I hope I get hit by a car on the way home.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d let that happen,” Buck says. He turns to look at Steve. “You didn’t have to do that back there, he coulda just walloped me and we would have been fine.”

“I wasn’t gonna let you take the fall for me,” Steve says.

“I wasn’t, though,” Bucky tells him. “I mean, I was bothering her, too.”

“Yeah,” Steve tells him with a shrug. “But you wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.”

“Steve, I wouldn’t have been there if I had decided to not be a dick to my best friend,” Buck says. “I think I kinda deserved it.”

Steve considers. “Yeah, a little,” he says. Bucky laughs.

“I miss talkin’ to you,” he admits. “Why didn’t you wanna hang around me anymore?” he asks. The hurt in his voice makes Steve heart bleed.

_Because that’s the way that it’s supposed to happen_ , he thinks. _Because that’s the way that the universe works. Didn’t you know?_ “Well, we were in a fight for the past week,” Steve says instead.

“Before that,” Bucky tells him. There is something raw in his voice. Steve swallows.

“Bucky, I always wanna hang around you,” he says. Bucky is looking at him expectantly, to continue. Steve steels his jaw. “I didn’t know if you wanted to hang around with me.”

Bucky furrows his brow. “Steve, I asked you if you wanted to do something every single night,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice. Steve frowns.

“Bucky, I know, but –“ He doesn’t know how to say it. Bucky’s lip twitches. He can hear his mother speaking softly in his head.

“It’s the boys, isn’t it?” he asks.

“No, Bucky –“

Bucky frowns. “Steve, I asked you once if they gave you trouble and you told me ‘no’; don’t you lie to me.” His gaze is like steel, fixed on Steve’s swelling face.

Quietly, Steve says “Well, Hillsy’s alright most of the time.”

Bucky’s face breaks, and he frowns. “Bucky,” Steve starts. “I didn’t wanna tell you because I know that –“

“Know what?” Bucky asks. He sounds harsh.

Steve sighs. “I know that you were excited to have friends that weren’t me.”

There is silence from Bucky. He is frowning so hard Steve thinks his face is going to melt off, staring at the sidewalk like it holds all the secrets of the universe. He can’t deny it, he knows he can’t. Finally, he speaks. “Steve,” he starts. His voice is hoarse. “Of course I wanna have friends that aren’t you. Just like you wanna have friends that aren’t me. Like Ethel.” Bucky pauses, thinks, sighs. “And I really fucked that one up for you, didn’t I?” he asks, the realization dawning on him slowly. Steve raises his eyebrows.

Bucky licks his lips, swallows. “But – just because I want other friends doesn’t mean that I don’t wanna hang around with you until my mom has to call me in, you know? And if my other friends give you trouble, then what’s the point of them? Why would I wanna be friends with a bunch of bullies?”

“I should have said something,” Steve says. “You seemed like you were having fun. I didn’t want to ruin that for you,” he admits.

Bucky laughs. “Steve,” he says. “I was bored out of my mind half the time. Hillsy’s alright, but Albie can’t string together a coherent sentence to save his life, and all JB does is repeat what Hillsy says.” Steve smiles to himself, laughs a little.

Steve sighs. “What are we gonna do?” he asks.

Bucky cocks his head, scratches his neck. “What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow,” Steve says. “What are we gonna do? How are we gonna be?”

Bucky shrugs. “Well, I’ll probably be grounded,” he says. “I’m also probably gonna have to find some new friends.”

“Bucky, you don’t gotta –“

“Steve, have you even been listening to me?” Bucky asks. It’s not harsh, but it is exasperated. “If they’re no friend of yours, they’re no friend of mine.” Steve knows he should probably feel bad, but his heart warms and glows. They carve out the space together.

“My mom is gonna be so angry,” Steve says. Bucky laughs. Steve laughs, too. It echoes across the neighborhood.

“Hey,” Buck says as they are nearing Steve’s apartment. “You never told me you draw.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says. His ears are burning at the memory of showing everyone at the dime store his masterpiece.

Bucky snorts. “I dunno; if you like it it’s a big deal. And that drawing was pretty good.”

“Really?” Steve asks. Bucky nods.

“You ever draw me?” he asks with a sly smile.

“No,” Steve replies honestly. “Do you want me to?”

Bucky grins, winces at the pain, and then offers a smaller smile. “Stevie, you know me,” Bucky drawls. “Am I really gonna turn down a chance to have this beautiful face recorded for future generations to see?” Steve takes a look at his swollen eye, the pattern of the blood dripping down his face. He laughs. Bucky laughs, too.

They stop outside of Steve’s apartment. “Wish me luck,” Steve says.

“Good luck,” Bucky tells him, thinking of his own mother.

The light from the apartment casts a glow on the streets. The starts are beginning to twinkle in the sky. Steve turns on his heel, begins to walk away. Bucky looks at him. “Hey,” he says. Steve stops. “We’re till the end of the line. You know that, right?”

Steve smiles slow, it creeps across his face and reaches his eyes. “Till the end of the line, Buck.”

Their mothers scold them, clean them up, secretly celebrate that the fight is over. Ethel leaves Eddie in the dust, apologizes to Steve. Their mysteries continue for the rest of the summer. When she grows up, she writes them into books for bored housewives. She dies of cancer in 1978. Her daughter has a daughter, and that daughter has a daughter, and her great-granddaughter reblogs Maggie’s selfie post on tumblr. She puts her hair up in a high bun, pets the cat on her lap, and turns off the light.

Across the country, Steve Rogers throws a glass against the wall of his apartment. It shatters. He places his head in his hands.

Bucky’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late post. I no longer have the backlog of chapters I did when I started posting this monster, and I wanted to make sure that I had at least two chapters written before I posted another one.


	35. and never leave (part one)

Steve thinks of bedrooms and balconies. He is kissing Bucky to sleep, or wrapping blankets around him on the couch, or holding his hand in the dark of the movie theatre. The lights are dimmed, and the room is dark. He is still wearing his tuxedo after Peggy's funeral. There is a Christmas special on in the background. It is 1943, and the beans Bucky have been cooking on the stove top are burning.

Steve stops thinking. He drags a hand down his face. He's pushing himself, he knows. He can stay awake for a long time if he wants; it comes in handy on missions sometimes, but he prefers to sleep if he can. And he can't. He's been awake for days. He's watching the sun set on the fourth. He wishes he could still get drunk. He swirls the liquid in his glass. It's more of a comfort thing at this point. But it doesn't hurt to try, does it?

That's what Bucky would say, if Bucky were there.

Night falls. Frost still covers the windows. He dumps the rest of his drink out in the sink. He sets the glass on the counter. He's shattered three already; he doesn't want to break any more. He takes a moment to look outside. The street is dead. He scrapes some frost off the glass with his fingernails. He watches it melt in his hand. It's 2015. He's alive. Bucky's alive.

Bucky's gone, and it's his fault.

Later, he presses his forehead to the cold tile of his shower. The clock is nearing midnight. He should get some sleep. He's started to feel exhaustion weigh on his arms, legs. The water is the hottest that it can get, and it is scalding his back.

He knows where Bucky is. He's known for days. He can see Nat's confirmation text in his head.

"is he ok?" Steve had asked. There was more that he wanted to say – mountains of it. But he stopped himself.

"Yes" she responded. "Hes doing fine"

Steve turns the shower off, grabs a towel and drapes it around his waist. His apartment is quiet, dark. He hasn't bothered to turn on any lights. This isn't how it was supposed to happen. He walks to his bedroom, briefly lingers at Bucky's. He contemplates entering, keeps walking. He feels as though his heart has been completely removed from his chest. This is his fault.

He lies down. The bed is lonely. Bucky's pillow smells like him. Steve doesn't know whether he should throw it at the wall, or curl around it. He chooses to roll over, faces away. This was all really just a pipe dream. This was too good to be true.

He's sure that he'll wake up to find that Bucky was never really there at all.

\--

When he wakes up, he has five messages from Sam. They are all variations on "we need to talk" and "where are you?" Steve has been asleep for two days. Steve slept for seven decades. Steve wants to go to sleep forever.

"sorry," he replies. "I was asleep."

Sam responds immediately. "for two days?"

"yes"

Steve gets up, stretches. He goes for a long run. He shouldn't have been so harsh. This is his fault. Bucky should have told him, talked to him. This is Bucky's fault. He can't be mad at Bucky. He's furious at Bucky. He's furious at himself. He wants to stop feeling. He runs faster, harder. He runs for hours, runs until his legs _ache_.

And then he runs home.

He has six text messages from Sam. "dude u cant leave me hanging like that"

"sorry," Steve replies. "I was running."

He gets a response an hour later. "for six hours?"

"yes"

"we need to talk"

"why?"

"u know why don't play with me steve"

Steve sighs. Something is gnawing deep within his thoracic cavity, chewing on bones and turning organs into sludge. "when"

"catch a bite to eat tomorrow at 2?"

_Sorry_ , Steve wants to say. _I'm going to be too busy wallowing in sadness._ Thinking it makes him smile; he bites the inside of his cheek. "fine" he replies.

On the way to the bathroom, he passes a hole in the wall. It's his, he put it there, fist curled up and bristling with anger. Bucky was barely a block away when he did it. Down the street, Bucky was hiding within his coats. He had two hands, two arms, sure, but at what cost? His breathing increased; he dug his fingers into his rib cage until they cracked.

_Can't do that anymore_ , Bucky thought through the pain. It'll be okay. It'll heal within the next few hours.

That was nearly a week ago. Now, Steve is taking a shower. He sits on the floor of the tub, curled around himself. The water is hot. It fogs all the mirrors. Bucky pulls back the curtain, he imagines. "Hey, it's okay," he croons. "I'm right here. I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to."

"Do what you want," Steve tells him, but it's a lie. Steve's a liar, and a hypocrite, and he's sick. _This is Bucky's choice_ , he thinks. _He should have just accepted it._

_But it's a terrible choice_ , he thinks.

_Is it terrible, or does it scare you?_ he asks himself.

Steve closes his eyes, presses his head back against the tile of the shower. _Doesn't matter now_ , he thinks _. Bucky's gone_. He listens to his breathing. _No, he's not_. He frowns. _He might as well be_. Steve turns the shower off, stands up, dries off. Shaves. Avoids Bucky's razor.

_He hates you_ , he thinks as he pulls the blade across his skin.

_No, he doesn't_ , he thinks as he wipes his face off.

Outside, the sun is setting. It is casting pinks and reds across the apartment. Steve can hear the heater rattle down the hallway. Across the city, Bucky watches the sunset.

"Are you ready?" Natasha asks. Her hair is pulled back, and she is dressed in comfortable clothing. He nods. "I'm going to teach you like you taught me," she says. "If it gets to be too much, call it off." Bucky nods again, cracks his neck. "Now," she says. "Let's see what you remember."

Bucky throws the first punch. Natasha blocks it. They meet eachother's eyes and smile.


	36. since you called me (part one)

“Hey man, you’re looking good,” is the first thing that Sam says to him. Steve smiles. Sam stands outside the door to his apartment, Steve just beyond the threshold. He is like a breath of fresh air.

“Thanks. You’re not looking too bad yourself,” he replies. Sam smiles warmly. Steve is finding that he has firm footing for the first time since Bucky left. “So, where are we going?”

Sam laughs. “Well, you see I had all of these ideas on the way over here, but now all I can think about is a big, juicy hamburger.” He makes motions with his hands. “You down?”

“You have no idea,” Steve tells him. He grabs a coat. They leave together.

“So, how have you been doing?” Sam asks. He sounds well-meaning, but they both know and understand the weight.

“Well, I’ve been better,” Steve replies with a brief turn of his head. His throat feels heavy, and he swallows.

“Yeah,” Sam replies. There is a moment of silence between them as they walk. “Have you talked to him?”

“No,” Steve replies, voice quieter. “He doesn’t want to talk with me.”

Sam nods, looks away briefly, remains casual. He turns back, every inch of his body language open and inviting. “Did he tell you that?” he asks.

“No,” Steve says again. He feels like he is suffocating for a moment, sinking under the Potomac. “But I know.”

Sam frowns for a moment, and then nods. He slips his hands in his back pockets. “He staying with Natasha?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He thins his lips.

“That’s what I thought,” Sam replies. “She’s the one that told me. She’s worried about you.”

Steve offers a bitter smile. “Nice of her,” he says. His voice is cold. Sam understands.

“Hey, she’s kind of scary, but she does care about you,” he says. Steve knows. “I’m glad she did, too, how else would I have found out?” There is an accusation there that they both ignore.

“Have you spoken with him?” Steve asks. He is reaching. Sam can hear it in his voice.

“No, I haven’t,” Sam tells him. He pauses for a moment, then adds “What happened?”

The wheels are turning in Steve’s head. He can replay it scene by scene, pause, rewind. Go back in time to moments before, the lead up, the build-up that he recognized but ignored. Watching Bucky get better, watching Bucky get worse. Moments on the Potomac, moments in DC, in Europe, in Brooklyn. “I’m not gonna leave you,” Bucky had said. Steve swallows.

“Hey, it’s cool,” Sam tells him. “I’m not going to press it.” Steve is grateful. He would talk about it, should talk about it, but the words refuse to form. Sam shoots him a small, casual smile. They carve out the space together in a way that’s not as thick, but just as complete.

And they don’t talk about it. They get to the restaurant, order more food than Sam could ever eat. Sam flirts with the waitress. She flirts back. They talk about baseball. They talk about movies. Steve tells him about the disastrous stop Captain America’s tour of the country selling war bonds had in Milwaukee; Sam tells him about the horrors of his first date. Steve tells him about his high school graduation; Sam tells him about his senior class’s best prank. Steve laughs so hard his face turns red. Sam chokes on his drink. For two and a half hours, Steve breathes easy.

They pay, leave a good tip, and then face the cold again. It will be spring soon.

“How old you gonna be this year?” Sam asks. There is a cold wind, something comfortingly empty about the late afternoon.

Steve has to think for a moment, do the math. “Ninety-eight,” he finally replies. “But really I’ll be twenty-nine.”

Sam chokes on a laugh. Steve raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. “I just realized I’m older than you.” This gets Steve laughing, too.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“I’m gonna be thirty-three,” Sam manages to get out. He is shaking.

“Well, you’re not over the hill yet,” Steve tells him. He is smiling so wide his face is starting to hurt. Sam pats his back, takes a few deep breaths.

“We should do this again sometime,” he says.

“Yeah, we should,” Steve replies.

“Sometime soon,” Sam adds. “You doing anything tomorrow night?”

Steve considers. “I planned on wallowing in sadness for a couple of hours, but I’m sure I can fit something in,” he says.

Sam smiles, but there is a sadness to it. “You play video games?”

“Not really,” Steve tells him. “Never really got the chance to start.” Sam’s smile widens, deepens, becomes positively demonic.

“Well, you’re gonna start. Eight ’o’clock. My place.”

Steve nods. “Sounds good,” he says. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” The concept strikes him as a little strange.

They keep walking, hands shoved in pockets. The world pulses on around them. People come home, leave home, talk, walk, kiss. “Hey, Cap!” a man yells from a car. He waves a hand and smiles. Steve waves back.

Before they know it, they are back at the apartment. “Hey, Steve,” Sam says before he leaves.

Steve turns. “Yeah?” he asks.

Sam licks his lips, thinks for a second. Steve recognizes the look. “I don’t know how it was before – well, before he came back,” Sam starts. Steve’s heart twitches. “But you know you’re not alone, right? Like, he’s not the only that you got.”

Steve frowns involuntarily, saves himself, and forces his lips into a smile. Sam returns it. “Thanks, Sam,” he says. He means it.

Sam nods. “It’s what friends are for.” A car drives past. “See you Saturday,” he says, with a wink. “Take care of yourself,” he adds.

“I’ll try,” Steve tells him.

He’s a little shocked to realize that he means it.


	37. since you called me (part two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM NOT DEAD!! And neither is this story. More notes at the end. Also note that despite the fact that they're going throuhg a rocky patch, this story is solidly stevebucky so don't worry!

When Natasha gets the phone call, she is at a café in Nice watching the sun rise.

\--

She is really not expecting this to happen.

Her legs are crossed and she is stirring the ice in her tea with a straw. She presses the phone to her ear. “Hallo,” she says, strictly casual but mentally preparing herself for the worst.

“Natalia,” she hears from the other end.

“James,” she replies. His voice is heavy with emotion. She shifts in her seat, places her free hand in her lap. “Are you in trouble?”

“Uh,” he says. He is breathing heavily, sounds like he is actively on the move. “Not exactly,” he continues, confidence draining from his voice with each word.

“What is ‘not exactly’?” Natasha probes. She takes a sip of the tea.

He stammers on the other end of the line momentarily before he manages to say (in Russian) “I had a fight with Steve.”

She lifts an eyebrow, considers. “Did you hurt him?” she asks.

“What?” he says in English, sounding shocked and almost offended. “No,” he continues. “It wasn’t – it wasn’t that kind of fight.”

“What kind of fight was it?” Natasha asks.

Bucky doesn’t respond for a moment. “I need a place to stay,” he finally says (in Russian). “I don’t know what to do.” His voice is thick with emotion. It makes Natasha frown.

“Are you in DC?” she asks. She is gentle, nurturing with her tone.

There is no reply. Natasha waits for a moment before assuming that Bucky is simply nodding and has forgotten that she can’t see him. “I have an apartment by the old SHEILD headquarters. Break in without setting off any alarms. I’ll be in DC as soon as possible.” She gives him the address.

“Thank you, Natalia,” he tells her as she is walking away from the café. Nice is awake, beginning to fully greet the day. She walks with purpose, buys a plane ticket and boards the first flight back to the States. She reads quietly, makes a game plan. She should text Steve, get the full story, but there is something about the trust Bucky has placed in her that makes her hesitate. It is an honor. It is more than she could have dreamed for from him, thinking about the future while applying pressure to a wound in her abdomen outside of Odessa. She flips the page of her book.

In the airport in DC she receives a text message. It’s from Steve. “Is he with you?”

Natasha thinks for a moment. “Yes” she finally responds.

“is he ok?”

She purses her lips. Her fingers hesitate over the touchscreen keyboard, but she eventually replies with “Yes,” and “Hes okay”. She places the phone back into her bag and holds her head high. It’s not really a lie. She can give Steve a more detailed report of the situation once she has all of the variables.

Natasha has not been back to her apartment in DC in months, but she finds it welcoming. A neighbor down the street smiles at her when they see her. She smiles back. The threshold of the apartment is thick with memories that she tries to displace, but she allows herself a moment of reminisce: staggering home after a mission and feeling the cool embrace of her sheets, helping a downstairs neighbor now long gone move in, a bizarrely peaceful Christmas with Clint a few years past.

The door shows no signs of forced entry, but it does not come as a surprise. The Winter Soldier preferred to force entry through windows if he could help it. She assumes that Bucky would do the same.

She enters on guard, relaxes when she sees Bucky sprawled out on the couch in the living room. He is dressed in black, shoes on and feet up. His eyes are closed, but his breathing indicates wakefulness. He has two arms wrapped around his body. Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“Paid a visit to Stark, I see,” she tells him. He swallows, curls and uncurls his metal hand. The apartment is silent enough for the gentle mechanical whirring to fill the air. The sound is familiar in a way that catches Natasha off-guard and makes a part of her that she had buried very deep ache.

Bucky opens his eyes. There are great, dark bags beneath them. Sleep has not come to him in days. Natasha drops her bag and finds a place on the loveseat adjacent to the sofa. “What happened?” she asks.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth, holds up his left arm and looks at it for a moment. Light bounces off of it. Across the city, Steve Rogers is throwing a glass at the wall of his apartment. It shatters. “I fucked up,” Bucky tells her.

“Elaborate,” she says.

Bucky swallows. He stares at his arm. His nostrils flare. His eyes grow damp. He sets his jaw. “I thought about what you had told me,” he starts.

“What did I tell you?” she asks. Her voice is even. Her face is neutral.

Bucky’s lip twitches into a frown. He blinks a few more times. “Red in your ledger. Unique skillset.” He waves his hand. “It sounded like I was – like it – it made sense,” he manages to get out. He sounds exhausted. Natasha takes note.

Bucky licks his lips. “But it didn’t – I didn’t want to tell Steve,” he says. He is dripping with sorrow. He looks pathetic.

“Why didn’t you want to tell Steve?” Natasha asks. Her concern is now piqued with curiosity.

Bucky’s eyes linger on the hardwood floor for a moment before he says “I didn’t think that he would understand.” His voice is hard, bitter.

Natasha frowns. “What did you do?” she asks. Bucky waves his metal fingers. Natasha bites her lip. “What did he do?”

Bucky’s breath catches, and he caves in on himself. “I didn’t tell him,” he says.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Does he know?” Bucky nods. “Is that why you’re here?” Bucky nods again. Natasha licks her lips, crosses her legs on the seat. “You fought?” Bucky does not reply. She lets him wallow for a few moments more before asking, with a clear and cold voice, “What do you want from me?”

Bucky looks up with wide, red eyes. His face is carved into a low, deep frown. “What do you want from me?” Natasha repeats. “Would you like a place to stay? Or would you like something else?”

Bucky swallows, doesn’t answer.

“What do you want?” she asks again. “Would you like me to speak with Steve?”

“Don’t talk to Steve,” Bucky says immediately. His back is straight. He steels himself, cleans himself up a little. “I want –“ His breath catches. “I want to go on missions.”

“Good, that’s a start,” Natasha tells him. “What do want me to do about that?” Bucky doesn’t respond. The wheels are turning. “I can train you,” Natasha says. “I can speak with Fury.” Bucky looks up, makes eye contact, nods. She continues. “But if we do this, I have some requirements.” She stands. “You need to be focused. You cannot feel sorry for yourself. I know that you can handle more than that now. And I will be expecting more than that. Do you understand?”

Bucky’s lip twitches. There is a violent, defeated emotion that passes its way across his face. He sits up straighter before nodding. “I understand,” he tells her, but his voice is weak.

Natasha thinks for a moment, bites her lip. The apartment is silent. “Steve doesn’t hate you,” she say, finally. “And he understands better than you’d think he would.” She is piercingly honest. It is like a knife in Bucky’s heart.

Time drips slowly. Bucky’s chest is clouded with emotion, it creeps into his vision and weighs his arms down. Something picks at Natasha’s spine. “Stand up,” she tells him. He raises an eyebrow, but follows the order. “No shoes in the house.” Bucky looks at her, looks down, and takes his shoes off. “If you’re staying here,” she begins. “You’re going to need the run-down. Follow me.”

\--

Bucky is quiet for the night, spends most of his time in the room allotted for him after the tour. His gaze is unreadable, his movements are marked with exhaustion. Natasha leaves him alone, buys groceries, changes sheets, wipes the dust from counters. Checks the place for bugs. She finds none.

That night, she dreams of the Winter Soldier.

\--

“You’re out of shape,” she tells him as they spar. She has the upper hand. “You’re fast, and you’re strong,” she begins, dodging a blow. She grabs him by his wrist, twists his body across her back. “But you could be faster.” She flips him over. He lands on the mat with a loud thud. She is inches above him. “You could be stronger.” She smirks. He frowns, attempts to grab her with his metal arm. She manages to just make it out of the way.

A smile plays on her lips. “You’re holding back,” she says. They are both on their feet again. “You’re stance is all wrong.” She swings a leg out, knocks him down. He growls. She places a leg on his shoulder, wraps her thighs around his neck and twists her body. They both hit the floor. She releases him. “I could have snapped your neck,” she tells him. “You would be dead.” He stands up without facing her. She follows in suit, stretches her arms.

He turns on his heel and throws a hard metal punch in her direction. She barely makes it out of the way. He is fighting furiously, backing her up into the corner. Every move is the Soldier, every step and every throw. It exhilarates her, until it begins to scare her. She begins to fight back not for demonstration, but in genuine self-defense. They go toe to toe until they are at the wall. There is no way for her to get away. He wraps his metal hand around her neck, presses her against the plaster.

Her heart races. She whimpers slightly, enough to feel embarrassed about it later. Bucky fixes his eyes on her. They are not cold. He is still in there. He lets go. She lands solidly, presses her entire body against the wall, maximizes the distance between them. “I could have snapped your neck,” he tells her. “You would be dead.” He stalks off to leave her to breathe.

\--

She finds him after a shower in the guest bedroom she has lent him. He is curled around himself at the bed, staring out the window at the city lights. “More like that,” she tells him. He furrows his brow, turns to face her with a puzzled look on his face. She shrugs. “You did great.”

She leaves him with a smile.

\--

She is nine when she meets him the first time, and she does not know who he is. The concept of him having a name is foreign to her, and when she thinks about it later she cannot remember a single person calling him anything in particular. He simply stands in the back, flanking handlers in all black. His arm is covered by leather and cloth. His face is hidden beneath a half-mask. His eyes are hard and dead.

She does not like the way that they follow her, and she does not like the complete silence that comes from his presence. He is the absence of something. It unnerves her, unnerves her in the way other children fear the dark. Natalia has never feared the dark. She cocks her head, stands in a well-practiced battle stance. She is the dark.

What she likes the least is the others. Little spiders who chatter about him when their handlers are not around. “He’s so handsome,” one of them says. She is pretending to be older than she is. Natalia rolls her eyes.

He teaches them sometimes, and when he does it is like torture. Not in the movements themselves – he has skill, and it wows her. She eats up his lessons, locks them away. Something that he has taught her saves her life hundreds of times over. But the others wear on her. They make fools of themselves in efforts to impress. She sticks her chin up high. She wants him to know that she is not a fool.

She is the biggest fool of them all. They see her precociousness as defiance, and they pit the two against each other. The other widowlings watch. Natalia’s face is as red as her hair, she shakes in her boots. The Soldier sees her as they face each other. She swallows. His eye twitches, and he frowns. He turns his head, studies her. She feels stripped down, but steels herself. He shoots a worried glance at his handler. His handler nods. He turns back to Natalia.

She lasts twenty seconds. It is longer than anyone else in the room would have lasted. He snaps her arm in two. She screams and falls, and they hold the head of any widowling who tries to turn away in place. This is what happens when you cross them.

They let her scream and cry, and then they take her to medical. She heals quickly. They allow the other girls to sign her cast. She meets the asset again when she is thirteen, and she does not realize that he is the man who broke her arm until she is wearing his coat, being debriefed next to him.

Before he is frozen, the asset turns to a handler. “She was just a little girl,” he says. The handler frowns.

“открой рот,” he says.

He opens his mouth.

\--

In truth, Bucky doesn’t really know what to do with her.

Steve was easy. Steve was always around, always available. He was a constant body in the room. He was reading, or sketching, or online, but he was accessible at all times. He would initiate conversations. He would ask questions, or tell stories. Bucky could speak to him about anything and know that he was being listened to. He was a safety net. Bucky misses him like a knife in the heart, but he swallows it.

Natasha is different. She is sometimes around, rarely available. She is aloof if they are not sparring, or discussing plans. She walks softly, says nothing. Even if they share a room they do not speak. The silence is comfortable, like a blanket, but it wears on Bucky. He wants to speak, say something besides a dull, to-the-point observation.

Not that he’d know what to say. She is still like mist. More tangible, but like mist.

They are together a week and a half when he finally takes the chance. She is reading on the couch. Her hair is damp and in strands. She is growing it out. She is wearing yoga pants and a blue tank top. He is still getting used to seeing her in clothing that is not intimidatingly perfect.

“Um,” he starts. His arms and legs are sore from sparring. He is getting faster. He is getting stronger. He isn’t holding back. “Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks.

He does not expect her to turn around and say “Sure.” He expects it so little that his eyebrows shoot up and his lip twitches. She smiles. “Did you have anything in mind?” she asks.

“I wasn’t expecting you to say yes,” he tells her. She continues to smile, narrows her eyes playfully.

“I’m sure this apartment has a few DVDs laying around,” she says, standing up to look under the TV.

They end up watching a Halloween movie from the late 1990s that Bucky is pretty sure is meant for children, but he enjoys it intensely. Natasha does as well, she laughs along throughout the whole thing. When she laughs, Bucky laughs, and Bucky laughing makes her laugh harder. It is one of the most surreal things that he has ever experienced.

After the film, they are tighter. In the morning Natasha is drinking coffee in the kitchen, reading the paper. Bucky has the sports section. He lounges at the other side of the table. “Okay, I gotta question,” he says, folding the paper over itself. She looks up. “But you have to promise you won’t laugh.”

“What is your question?” she asks.

Bucky swallows, leans forward. “Are movie theater prices ridiculous, or is it just inflation?” She grins. “Also, why does everybody on TV look the same? And why do the bananas taste different? And Coca-Cola! Why does Coca-Cola taste different? Was it not good enough? Because I’m tellin’ you Nat, what we had was just fine, and I _know_ that I sound like somebody’s grandpa when I say that but it’s true.” Natasha has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. It only serves to egg Bucky on. He takes a look at the paper, leans even closer, nearly stands out of his chair to close the space between them. “ _And why did they sell the Dodgers to LA_?”

She buys him Mexican coke and they discuss banana plagues and baseball for hours.

\--

The Winter Soldier was cold. He had his moments, but even then they were frost-covered. The strings that bound them together were coated with ice. When he held her, she felt powerful and cherished. But not warm.

Bucky Barnes is a fire. He gives off heat wherever he stays, once he gets going. The strings that bind them are the same, but they have thawed. He does not hold her, and she does not want him to, but there are tokens of friendship: moments of trust, an understanding that is more intimate than anything she has felt in years.

It is easy to stand next to him and feel warm, just like it is easy to stand next to Steve and feel safe.

Not that she’s particularly comfortable with either.

\--

Sometimes Bucky moves in a way that is familiar. It shoots through her body, lands in her heart – a mix of fear and fondness. Sometimes he moves too quickly. Sometimes he moves too methodically. Sometimes he stands like a statue and watches something, observes every inch of it. Natasha knows that he is computing, making connections in his head. They taught it, programmed it in. She does the same thing.

She’ll sit and watch, and wonder if Steve knew that this was the Soldier. But then she thinks:

Sometimes Bucky moves in a way that is unfamiliar. It makes her turn her head, observe with a mix of curiosity and wonder. He has a rhythm to the way he walks and talks, uses his hands. The ghost of an accent slips in when he speaks, the more he speaks. The easier it gets for them to speak to her. He has a smile that she never got to see when she knew him: a real charming thing, put-upon but genuine and gregarious.

\--

“I remember Paris,” he tells her one morning. She looks up from her phone. She has been messaging three people: Nick Fury, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson. She has kept Steve politely up to date, respecting privacy. She has kept in touch with Sam, happy to hear that he has been keeping Steve away from his melancholy. She has sent an introductory email to Nick Fury about the possibility of Bucky being involved in… whatever it is they’ve been trying to do. She smiles. “You were just a kid, Nat,” he says. He is dripping with shame.

“I was old enough to know what I was doing,” she tells him. “Don’t feel bad about it. I remember it fondly.”

He spends a long time thinking.

Later, they spar. He has the upper hand, but stops to linger at her right arm. She uses his hesitation as leverage, and their session ends with his arm twisted around his back and his face in the ground. He beats at the mat, and she lets him go. She stands to stretch, wipe the sweat from her face. He is still far away. “I broke your arm,” he tells her.

“My arms are fine,” she says.

He frowns. “No –“ he pauses. “When you were little. They made me break your arm.” He swallows, looks at the ground. “How old were you?”

“Do you want to know the answer?” Natasha replies. She takes a drink of water. Bucky doesn’t reply. “Don’t feel bad about it,” she says. “It made me a better a fighter.”

It continues.

“I remember London,” he says.

“I remember Portland,” he says.

“I remember Mumbai,” he says.

“Don’t feel bad about it,” she tells him. “It was the first time that I felt like I was worth something.”

He nods.

\--

Things come back to him fast. Movements are ingrained in his muscles, bones. He picks up where he left off. “You _are_ a super soldier,” Natasha tells him. There is humor in her voice, light prodding.

“Yeah, but it’s still kinda… I dunno,” he says. His mouth is twisted. “Kinda weird.”

Not that he complains. He’s aware of his body. It grounds him. He’s aware of the power in his left arm. He can see the path of his existence from the beginning to the now, with very little interruptions. There are blank parts. There is a hole in the form of Winifred Barnes. There are years of being a teenager that he has not yet recovered. But he can link moments from the start to finish, and all the way through. He is Bucky. He is the Winter Soldier.

Natasha quizzes him on languages. He is proficient at everything she throws at him. He can speak it if he warms up, read it if he’s been speaking it. At first it makes him nervous, gives him a growing sense of dread, but the novelty of the ability soon catches on. “I could barely read English when I was a kid,” he says to Nat in French. She lifts an eyebrow. “I was terrible at school,” he continues in Cantonese. Nat is at full attention. She knew the Soldier, not Bucky. She finds she wants to get to know Bucky. “Steve was always better at it,” he finishes in English. His voice breaks when he says Steve’s name, but he recovers, forces a tone of playfulness.

“Have you spoken with him lately?” Natasha asks. She already knows the answer. This is a formality.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” Bucky tells her in Russian. His voice is flat, but there is emotion at the edges of the way he forms his words.

“You would be surprised,” Natasha murmurs.

“Have you been talking to him?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” she says. He raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t told him anything that you wouldn’t want me to. That’s your decision,” she says. “But I’ve been keeping tabs on him.”

Bucky swallows. “How’s he doin’?” he asks. Every inch of him is on edge. He is dripping with emotion.

“He’s well. He’s been spending a lot of time with Sam.” Bucky nods. Natasha considers. “Would you like me to pass on a message?”

Bucky is thinking. “No,” he says. This is why:

He sees his arm in the mirror, cool metal glinting in the sunlight. He listens to the insides of it as it spins, works, whirs. He tests it while he trains, remembers all of the ways that he can use it to his advantage. It makes him feel like he has a say in his place in the world. This is the arm that Tony Stark built for him, by request. This is a choice that he has made. It is one of many choices, and all of them bring him closer to the Winter Soldier.

It comes with the territory. It is hidden in every movement that he makes. He can’t escape his past, but he can live with it. He can curl and uncurl his metal fingers. He can use the thought processes they gave him to his advantage. Languages fall off his tongue. He can be colder. He can be more solid.

He doesn’t think that he can be what Steve wants.

And he doesn’t know if he would choose Steve over the quiet, calm feeling he gets in the back of his head when he thinks he’s doing the right thing.

And it breaks his heart to think that he would cause Steve any more pain.

\--

“You’re in love with each other,” Natasha says. Bucky is reading a book that she recommended. His eyes widen. She is far-away, thoughts racing a mile a minute. Her brows are furrowed. There is panic in Bucky’s heart, the kind of panic that was learned years ago. That he is only now remembering. He thinks of the body of a boy in the ground in Michigan. It catches him off-guard. He doesn’t reply.

Natasha narrows her eyes. She readjusts herself. She is in the middle of composing a message to Nick Fury. “You know, I’m usually better at figuring this sort of thing out,” she says. “Were you lovers?” she asks. Bucky is a deer in headlights. His look is enough. A small smile plays on her lips. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she says. There is kindness, warmth, humor in her voice.

Bucky takes a moment to respond. “Used to be,” he says. He is very quiet.

“You should speak with him,” Natasha tells him. It has been two long months.

Bucky takes a deep breath, stays silent. Natasha looks him up, down.

“What are you afraid of?” she asks.

\--

She did not expect them to be lovers again because she is not accustomed to expecting much of anything from people, but she does take a very quiet moment to lay in bed and mourn what could and would never have been. She spends about forty seconds on it, half turned beneath the sheets, remembering kisses and touches with quiet fondness. Then she stops herself, settles, thinks.

Looking back on it, it’s hilarious to her how she hadn’t thought of it before. Her own foolishness makes her laugh. She presses a smile into the cool pillow. One day, it will be Clint’s favorite story.

Across the hall, Bucky shivers through his layers of clothing and traces the memory of a body that could keep him warm for hours. Thinking about it catches in his throat.

Across the city, Steve Rogers is doing the same thing.

\--

In the morning, they meet as they always do. Bucky is skittish. Natasha fights it out of him, and by the time they are done for the day they are as they always are: sweaty, exhausted, lying beside each other on the mat.

Natasha is putting a plan in motion. Bucky is realizing for the first time that the nature of his relationship with Steve truly does not bother her. He presses his head back against the mat and smiles.

\--

“It’s not SHIELD,” Natasha tells him over lunch. They are dressed in fine clothing because they can be. He has a tailored suit now, leather gloves. His hair is styled. He winked at himself in the mirror before leaving her apartment. The low murmur of the restaurant carries on around them. “It’s not even an organization. It’s more of a loose association of private contractors.”

“How do I know I’ll be workin’ for the right people?” he asks.

“Anyone contacting us is from a credible organization. FBI, CIA, and so on. We don’t work under them, but we do work with them.” Natasha leans forward. She has bangs now. Her hair is to her upper back. “We’re specialists. They call us in when they need us.” Bucky looks unconvinced. “It was built by the uninfluenced remains of SHIELD. The same people who fought beside Steve in DC, the same people who have been continuing to clean up HYDRA’s mess across the globe. It’s the next step.”

Bucky considers. “Is this my only option?”

“No,” Natasha replies. “But it is our best option.” She taps her fingernails on the white tablecloth. “We would be our own bosses, James. We wouldn’t have to bare our necks.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. “What about Fury?” he asks.

“Fury’s involved,” Natasha says. “Low-key, but involved. We’ve been discussing you.”

“Have you?” Bucky asks.

Natasha offers a pleasant half-smile, nods. “He’s impressed. He wanted to know if you were interested.”

There is agency in his arm, and control in the way that he moves. The restaurant buzzes around him. He can tell exit points, entry points, vantage points, crowd control, ways to minimize casualties, ways to maximize casualties. He recognizes potential threats in the other patrons, the quiet young woman at the adjacent table with a gun in her handbag and the burly looking man by the bar who carries himself with the gait of someone who is trained in at least one form of martial arts.

But he can also hear the music over the speakers, recognizes the song and what he thinks of it (lyrically well put together, but she’s not his favorite bird). He’s drinking something sweet despite the time of day because he likes the taste of sugar and it’s overabundance in the 21st century. He can think back to the 1933, evaluate his favorite candy bars by taste and texture, remembers having the exact conversation with Steve Rogers, whom he loves, on the fire escape of his childhood apartment. He shifts in his seat, in the suit he wore because he likes the way that he looks in it. He taps his finger on the side of his glass and knows that it’s something he’s always done, in a dimestore in Brooklyn or in a tavern in Southern France.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up on end. He has red in his ledger. He has a unique skillset.

He says, “I’m interested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the lack of updates. I just started college, and I've been swamped with schoolwork and people etc. 
> 
> This story is not dead. I have no intention of leaving this dead. I'm still interested in this story, and I'm still interested in writing for cap2. I just need to find the time. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me, it means a lot and I hope that you are enjoying the fic.


	38. since you called me (part three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! :)

When Steve gets the phone call, he is painting in the living room of his apartment. His hands are stained with vibrant colors, and he is humming along to a song on the oldies station.

\--

“Hello,” he answers, trying his best not to get blue paint on his phone.

“Steve Rogers,” the voice on the other end of the line says. Steve furrows his brow.

“Fury?” he asks.

“I have a couple of questions for you,” Fury says. Steve frowns. “Now before you get your panties in a twist, let me explain. Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Is this the kind of conversation best suited to a phone call?” Steve asks, but it is also a challenge. On the other end of the line, Fury is smiling.

“It’s about James Barnes,” he says. Steve’s heart drops.

He swallows. “What about him?” he asks. He feels cold. It’s creeping up his spine.

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

Steve’s lip twitches into a frown, he takes a deep breath. “No,” he says. “Not in months.”

\--

Sam is laughing so hard that he is crying.

“Alright, so you’re telling me – you’re telling me that you’ve been here for what? Three years? And nobody ever showed you Miss Liberty?” He is wiping a tear from his eye and leaning forward on the couch. Steve is on the other end, sprawled out comfortable against the cushions. Two video game controllers sit between them. It is ‘tomorrow night’.

“No,” Steve says, eyebrows raised. There is good humor in his voice. “Nobody has ever showed me ‘Miss Liberty’, and something is telling me that there was a good reason for that.”

Sam smiles, bites his lip and shakes his head. “Buddy, I’ve got some news for you. That girl you were telling me about? What was her name?”

“Judy,” Steve answers. Judy Goldstein, born 1923 in New York, New York. Pretty young thing with hips that swung, and lips that always curled into a genuine smile when she saw him. The only USO girl who neglected to either throw herself at him or avoid him like the plague. He can close his eyes and remember the way that her blonde hair bounced at her shoulders, the way that her eyelashes fluttered, the flare that she had on stage. She had performance written in her bones, surging through her blood. She could swear like no other girl Steve had ever (and will ever) meet. She was beautiful and kind in the way that made you think she was a tragedy waiting to happen.

And outside of Chicago, Illinois she took Steve’s virginity in a hotel room. She kept kissing him while they were on the road, leaving lipstick imprints on his wrists and chest. She brought a realness to the unreality of his new body. He left her in the States, and he stayed in Europe until he froze. They parted through letters. “Sweetheart,” she had written. “You don’t owe me a thing.” It smelt like her perfume.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Judy! Yeah, she had quite the reputation.”

“She did?” Steve asks, sitting up. “Was she successful?”

“Was she successful,” Sam repeats, grabbing his laptop. “Depends on your definition.”

Steve frowns, scratches his neck. The video game is paused on the screen. Steve liked it, he thinks. “I mean, did she have a career? She always wanted to be an actress.” Sam bites the inside of his cheek, types on his computer. “Judy,” Steve repeats. “Judy, Judy, Judy. I haven’t thought about Judy in a long time.”

“Yeah, well I haven’t thought about Melissa in a long time,” Sam replies. Melissa, dark curly hair, green eyes. Born 1982, Springfield, Illinois. Sam Wilson’s first girlfriend. They were twelve. He held her hand at the movie theatre. She stole her father’s watch to give to him as a one-week anniversary present. They both ended up grounded.

Steve and Sam have been swapping stories.

Sam leans over, passes the laptop to Steve. What he sees makes his eyebrows lift with lightning speed.

**Wikipedia, 23:32 PM, February 14 th**

Judith Fletcher (October 31st 1923 – May 17th 1998), known professionally by her stage name Miss Liberty, was an American actress, singer and performer. She is most known for her performance in the 1953 B-movie _Captain America Stole My Heart_ , in which she plays the role of a young USO girl who has an affair with Steve Rogers. The film was widely panned due to its risqué themes, but it has since become a cult classic.

Unable to find serious work as an actress due to the film’s infamy, Liberty found work instead in b-movies, exploitation and horror films throughout the 1950s and 1960s.

Historians are divided as to whether or not Liberty had a romantic relationship with the real life Captain Rogers. She did serve as a USO girl on Rogers’ nationwide tour selling war bonds, but there is no concrete evidence that suggests the two were involved. Testimonials from former USO girls are divided on the issue. Since his return, Rogers has not made a comment.

“Captain America Stole My Heart?” Steve repeats out loud. Sam laughs so hard he wheezes.

“It’s awful,” he says. “But like ‘rite of passage’ awful, so bad it’s good. Like Rocky Horror. I saw it for the first time in college.” He smiles, leans back into the couch. “I think it’s on Netflix.”

Steve’s face is twisted with confusion. “And it’s about?”

“Sort of a saucy version of the story you were just telling me,” Sam says. “Man, when I saw that movie way back, if you told me that I would be getting the first hand story from Captain America –“ Sam breaks off, shakes his head.

Steve furrows his brow. “ _Captain America Stole My Heart_?” Sam wheezes. Steve looks up from the laptop screen, open-mouthed. “Seriously?” Sam closes his eyes and nods furiously. Steve takes a look at him, a look at the laptop, and then a look back at Sam. Sam stills for a moment, too cognizant of the lack of reaction from Steve when –

Steve lets out a low, but genuine laugh and buries his face in his hands. His body shakes and his noises are muffled. When he looks up, his face is flushed and he’s blinking away tears. There’s a very wide, incredulous smile on his face. He points at the laptop screen. “This is,” he says, pausing to wipe at his face, “The most ridiculous thing that I have ever seen.”

Sam widens his eyes. “Wait until you see the movie!” he says, relaxing again into the couch.

Steve’s eyes are half-lidded, and his face is a copy of the _look_ that Bucky gives when he hears something he thinks is too obvious or stupid. _That_ look. Sam’s heart skips a beat. There are texts from Natasha on his phone, coordinating care and full of concern. Across the city, Bucky is massaging the muscles in his arms and legs, sore from sparring and training.

In Sam’s living room, Steve says “I don’t think I _want_ to see the movie.” He spits out ‘want’ with a comedic flare, crosses his arms and leans back into the couch.

“No, dude, it’s great,” Sam tells him. “There are some really bad special effects, the guy playing you is wearing pants that are way too tight, and at one point Miss Liberty puts on one of those bras that shoots bullets.”

“ _What_?” Steve asks.

Sam nods. “Yeah, like she shoots bullets out of her boobs. Like, her nipples.” Sam straightens his back, squares his shoulders, imitates the motions.

“Stop,” Steve says, smiling but closing his eyes. He puts a hand out to motion for Sam to cease and desist. “Stop, stop, stop. I get it.”

“But Captain,” Sam says in a faux high-pitched, feminine voice. He shoots Steve a coy grin and bats his eyes.

“Stop,” Steve says, batting at Sam, drawing out the ‘o’.

Sam stops, laughs. “Alright, but you gotta admit it’s not the worst piece of Captain America pop culture out there.”

“It’s probably one of the worst I’ve seen,” Steve says, setting the laptop on the coffee table.

“Including or excluding the porn parodies?” Sam asks. Steve freezes.

“The _what_?”

“Oh,” Sam says, voice crawling to a slow inch. “Oh, no.”

“You know what?” Steve asks. “Don’t even start.

_One hour later._

“And the album is supposed to sync up with the movie?” Steve asks. Sam is calibrating electronics and changing volumes. The DVD menu for “The Wizard of Oz” is playing on a loop on the screen of the TV. “Did they do it on purpose?”

“No, man! That’s the crazy thing; it just happened like that!” Sam says. He is grinning so wide his face hurts.

Steve is skeptical on the couch. “Who figured this out?”

Sam shrugs. “Some college students, I don’t know.”

Steve laughs. “How much free time do you have to have to –“

Sam shushes him, motions for him to quiet. “I’ve gotta sync it up,” he says.

“What year did this album come out?” Steve whispers, despite himself.

“’71, I think,” Sam says. His attention is focused on the screen. “Fantastic album,” he adds.

“I know,” Steve says. Sam raises an eyebrow. “I mean, I’m supposed to know. I listened to it a couple of times.”

“What’d you think?”

Steve shoots a devious grin. “Well, I listened to it more than once.”

_Two hours later._

“That’s easy,” Sam says, leaning into his seat. “Fuck Tony, marry Bruce, kill Clint.”

“What’d Clint ever do to you?” Steve asks, eyes glistening with amusement.

Sam shrugs like it’s obvious. “Falcon,” he says, gesturing to himself. “Hawk-Eye,” he says, gesturing away from him. “There can only be one.”

_Thirty minutes later_.

Laughter echoes across the apartment.

Steve is crying, buckled over. His face is flushed. His hands are shaking as he tries to point at Sam.

Sam’s eyes are closed. He is laughing so hard he is not making a sound.

_Dawn_.

The sun cracks over the edge of the earth and catches the two of them on Sam’s back porch. They are wrapped warmly with blankets and sweaters, but the cold does not push them inside. Steve traces the horizon with his eyes and sighs. Sam blinks lazily and shifts in his seat.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Sam asks.

Steve swallows hard. “Feels like it is.” His voice is low.

“You reacted how anybody in your situation would have,” Sam offers. He speaks evenly. It is clear against the cold air.

Steve’s lip trembles, but he shuts it down. His eyes water, but he shuts them down. “You weren’t there,” he says. “You wouldn’t know.”

“You’re right,” Sam says. He is looking at the sunrise. “But I do know that I would be pissed as hell if the ex-brainwashed assassin I’m rooming with went behind my back to attach a weapon of mass destruction to himself.” Steve raises an eyebrow. “Natasha told me,” Sam says, and then he continues with “I’m not saying you were justified, but I am saying that anybody would be mad.”

Steve shakes his head. “I should have been –“ he tries to start, but he cuts off. “He was trying to – and I –“ He hunches.

Sam’s lip twitches into a frown. Steve does not face his friend, but he does lean forward and bob is head up. His eyes are cast downward. “I just miss him a lot, you know?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Steve, what you did for him was beyond what anybody else would have done, and it was hard, and it was the bravest thing that I’ve ever seen anybody do.” Steve does not speak, merely shakes in the morning light. “But you couldn’t be there for him for everything. He’s… it sounds like he’s gotta work out some things for himself.”

Steve leans back up, finishes wiping at his red-rimmed eyes. He steels himself, repositions and tries to relax. He licks his lips. “I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I just… after the Potomac it was – I had to get him. We had to bring him home. And then, after he was home, I had to help him get better and now that he’s gone I-“ He shuts his mouth, clenches his jaw. Takes another breath. Keeps speaking. “After I woke up, there was New York. After New York, there was SHIELD. After SHIELD, there was Bucky. And now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

There is silence. There has been a lot of silence. Sam turns. “I asked you once what made you happy.”

Steve’s lip twitches. “Yeah, you did.” He runs his hand down his face. “Bucky asked me that once, too.”

“What’d you say?”

Steve takes a ragged breath. “Same thing I told you.”

“Hasn’t changed?”

Steve snorts. “No, I guess not,” he says. His voice is weak.

“What about before the war?”

Steve furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

Sam shoots him a very small smile. “Had to be something.”

Steve swallows. The sun rises. “Yeah,” he says. “There’s something.”

\--

Steve stares at the blank page of his sketchbook. He sits down, cracks his knuckles. Begins to draw the curve of a tree limb. It roots to the page, grows as he lets it grow. Leaves are placed at the tips of its fingers. They flower. Steve lets them blossom pink. He leans back, chews on the eraser of his pencil.

In the morning, he runs with Sam. The air has a chill, but it is warming up. “You know, you’re always welcome at group,” Sam says, winded. Steve considers it.

When he returns home, the apartment is empty. It is lonely. If he thinks of the absence – if he thinks of the absence, it hurts. Rattles around in his chest. His hands go weak. He takes a deep breath. He puts on a record. Music fills the apartment. He does not lay languid against Bucky’s chest. He presses carbon to paper. Four hours later, the face of a girl he met briefly on the street is immortalized in his sketchbook.

That night, he buys art supplies. Paints and inks, oils and charcoal. He sleeps in an empty bed. Across the city, Bucky Barnes is doing the same. They both turn over, roll beneath the sheets. They move closer to each other without even realizing it.

Mornings come and go, and stretch into days and nights. Steve takes his sketchbook with him. The city fills its pages. He misses New York.

New York as he knew it exists in the pages of past sketchbooks. They sit in his dresser, untouched since that night that Bucky ran his fingers across their pages. The thought makes Steve’s heart twitch. If he tries he can feel it bleeding through his rib cage, and down into the pit of his stomach. He follows the curve of their leather casings. He peels back the cover.

He can trace the evolution of his talent, with gaps. They exist at the Smithsonian, or in private collections. He misses them acutely, sees the empty spaces they leave. Wishes he could remember their secrets.

There is one in particular that he stops on. He laughs when he sees it, assumed it had been destroyed. There is dirt on its yellowed, curled corners, and the rusted stain of what Steve assumes to be either his or Bucky’s blood in the lower left of the piece. His lip trembles. He snorts, runs a hand through his hair. Develops an idea.

The next morning, the flamenco dancers are in their prime on his easel. Her dress is red as blood, the sort of red that the cones in his eyes before the serum had no way of giving him. She is beautiful. She has Peggy’s lips and eyes.

Steve washes the red from his hands and goes to sleep long after he should have. Across the city, Bucky asks Natasha if she would like to watch a movie. To his surprise, she says yes.

Clocks tick. Wounds heal.

\--

Their bodies are pressed against the swollen wood floors of Steve’s childhood apartment. Grey afternoon light is cast across them as they lay. It is fading into early evening. It has been raining for hours. Steve absent-mindedly scratches at his ankle. Bucky sniffs at a cold. Down the street, Winifred Barnes coughs into a handkerchief. It turns crimson beneath her breath. She pales, clutches at the arm of her chair. She has three months.

It is 1934.

“Do you ever think about what you wanna do?” Steve asks. He is staring at yellowing ceiling, following the cracks with his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asks in reply. He has been thinking about Flash Gordon for the past three minutes of silence.

Steve chews on his bottom lip. He winces; there is a split in the center from the fist of a boy who will later die in the Pacific. He tried to rip off a street vendor. Steve gave him a piece of his mind. “I mean when you’re older. Like for the rest of your life.”

Bucky’s first reaction is to laugh, low and bitter. He cannot see the grave his mother will lie in, but he can see the unemployment lines, the dark reality of his future. He has no hope of a better life. But then, he says “You know what?”

“What?”

“I wanna see the country.” His lips fall straight and resolute. He stares at the ceiling and crosses his arms. He is sitting in quiet contemplation.

“That’s swell, Buck,” Steve says, turning his head to face his friend. Outside, the air is cold. Inside, they are warm.

Bucky thinks for a moment, nods. “Sure as hell is,” he says with a smirk, turns his own head to face Steve’s until they are looking at each other. “You and me,” he tells him, pointing accordingly. His knuckles are bruised from the wallop it took to peel that asshole off of Steve. “I’ll save up enough money, and we can hop on a train and travel the _whole_ US. Maybe even other places too.”

“You mean that?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, of course. I did it when I was a kid with my family, before I came here. It was a lot of fun.”

“Where’d you go?”

Bucky thinks for a moment. “All over,” he says. “Saw everything. Even saw the Grand Canyon once.” His lip twists into a half-smile when he thinks of it.

“You did?” Steve exclaims, rolling up on his elbow. He is absorbed completely.

Bucky snorts. “Would I lie to you?” he asks.

Steve rolls his eyes, but asks “What was it like?”

Bucky considers. “Big,” he offers, eventually. “My ma loved it,” he continues. “And every morning me and Becky used to pick up rocks to bring back. We always tried to one up each other, you know, who could get the best rock?”

“Who got the best rock?” Steve asks.

“Who do you think?” Bucky sneers, scratching at his neck.

Steve shrugs with one shoulder, says “Well, I was gonna place my bet on Becky, but –“

Bucky shoves him playfully. “Ah, fuck off Stevie,” he says. “It was me,” Bucky clarifies. “ _I_ got the best rock.”

Steve hides his smile behind his hand. “That’s quite an accomplishment there, Buck.”

Bucky shoots him _that_ look. Outside, there is thunder. “I’d like to see you try,” he says.

“Try to get the better rock?” Steve asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes, ‘try to get the better rock’. It’s not as easy it looks,” Bucky says, crossing his arms. He narrows his eyes, but every inch of his body denotes playfulness.

“Who’s gonna judge?” Steve asks. Bucky lifts an eyebrow. “I mean, who’s gonna judge who’s rock is better? What is the criterion for the competition –“

“When you find a good rock; you know it’s a good rock –“

“Yeah, but what if we both find good rocks? Who’s gonna decide who’s rock is better?”

“I’ll decide.”

Steve shakes his head. “But you’re biased. You’re gonna pick your rock –“

“Look, Stevie, if you find a rock that really knocks me off my feet, I’m gonna say that you’ve got the best rock, you win.”

Steve steels his jaw. It’s difficult, because he wants to laugh. “I’m gonna get the best rock.”

Bucky snorts. “Oh, we’ll just see about that,” he says. There is a brief pause between them. They listen to the rain as it hits the roof of the apartment building, the sound of car horns in the distance.

“Do you think we can see the Niagara Falls?” Steve asks. His voice cuts through the gloom.

“Don’t see why not,” Bucky replies. “Personally, I’d like to go to Hollywood.” Steve barks out a sharp laugh.

“Hollywood?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Why not? Say hi to some movie stars, make some friends on top. It’s gonna be great.” Bucky pauses for a moment, listens to the rain. “Just gotta save up enough money to get outta here. Take a year off, see the world. No parents calling you in too early, no where you gotta be. Just me and you and wherever we wanna go.”

The picture being painted is irresistible, and Steve can see it stretching before them like a movie show. Grabbing a train, hitch-hiking the plains. He feels the excitement in the thin bones of his legs, makes his long fingers twitch. It’s an idealism that scrubs away at the grime of the Great Depression. It gives him the courage to say (sheepishly) “That’s a neat idea, Buck. Me, I wanna go to art school.”

A grin spreads across Bucky’s face. “You do?” he asks.

Steve bites on his lip. He can feel embarrassment spreading warm across his cheeks. “I mean, drawing’s the only thing I’m really good at –“

Bucky rolls up onto his elbow, turns to face Steve until they are reflections of each other. “Steve, that’s great!” he says. Something pulls at the corners of his mouth, beats sick in his heart for a split second. Steve doesn’t catch it. “Steve, you got a real plan, you got a real shot. You’re gonna go be an artist somewhere.”

His words make Steve smile, but he looks down as he does, studies the hardwood floor. It’s pressed cold against his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. He has doubts. “Thanks, Buck,” he says. “What about you? Gonna travel the world forever, or settle down somewhere?”

Bucky chews on his lip, takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says, but his voice is weaker. “I’d probably come back,” he continues, feigning a sort of smooth coating of disinterest. “Keep a job down by the docks for a couple of years. Then who knows.”

Steve nods. He can see easels and books, great windows of some great observatory.

Bucky can’t see anything at all.

\--

Sam leans back into his seat, relaxes easy. His back arches comfortably; his fingers are curled around the drink in his hand. “So, what about you?” he asks. “What have you been up to?”

Steve lips twitches, mouth half-curves into a smile. They are out for coffee on the warmest afternoon of the year, seated in a little place in the opposite direction of the café that Bucky found for himself. “I’ve actually been drawing a lot lately,” he says.

“You draw?” Sam asks, and then he says “Wait, yeah, of course you draw. Sorry, everybody knows that.”

Steve snorts. “They do, do they?”

Sam nods, takes a sip of his coffee. His body language is casual, but poised with concern. He is in a state of relaxation, but knows how to mediate if he has to – an ability born from practice and a genuine concern. Steve likes him. He’s a good friend. “That well known, huh?”

Sam nods again. “It’s like George Washington chopping down a cherry tree. Kids learn it in kindergarten. I didn’t know you still did it, though.”

Steve entertains the notion for a moment, but it leaves him feeling detached like he is not him but instead of a puppet on strings. He wraps his fingers tighter around his coffee, lets it burn him for a moment before releasing again. He is back. “I’ve always done it,” he says. “But lately it’s been –“

“Been what?” Sam asks.

Steve thinks for a moment, grimaces briefly and finally decides on “I haven’t drawn this much since before the war.”

“Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

Steve bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“Why so unsure?” Sam asks. “I mean, usually people fall one way or another on something like this.”

Steve snorts, smiles. “I suppose they usually do,” he says. “I guess I just don’t really know what I’m doing with it anymore.”

“Well, do you enjoy it?”

Steve thinks of creation, of mastery, of any moment he could think of where he placed a pigment to the paper. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“Then I’d say that it’s a good thing,” Sam tells him. Outside, sun hides behind a cloud. People drift past.

Steve nods, opens his mouth to speak and pauses. Closes his lips. Opens them again to say “You know I wanted to go to art school.”

“You did?” Sam asks. This information is new. He shifts in his seat. “Ever get the chance?”

Steve snorts, shakes his head. “Nah. Not at the time. We could barely afford our apartment.”

“That’s too bad,” Sam says, and he means it. “You ever think about going now?” Steve raises an eyebrow. Sam shrugs. “It’s not that crazy.”

“I’m not fit for it anymore,” Steve says. He shits in his seat. Taps at his mug once, twice.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks. “Why not?”

Steve swallows, thinks. “There’s been – I’ve missed a lot. In the art world things are constantly changing, and I missed a lot of it.

“Never too late to look into it,” Sam says. The sun breaks through. Afternoon light spills across their table. Steve lets it warm his hands as he listens to Sam tell a story about his sister in law school, about his day.

That night, his mind rests.

\--

They give him his things in a cardboard box from the archives of the Smithsonian. There are sketchbooks, letters, photographs. The aid who hands him the box is kind, demure, seems almost apologetic about the situation. Steve is just happy to hold them in his hands again.

The box finds it’s way to his coffee table, besides a cup of tea and an old book. He puts a record on. Music fills the apartment. Steve walks into the past.

There are three sketchbooks in the box. One is ancient, falling apart. It is embarrassing to him how foreign its age is, a reminder of the progression of time. In his head it is new, presented to him by his mother’s frail hands on the eve of his tenth birthday. It is expensive, and they can trace the things they must give up for the purchase, but Steve barely notices and Sarah thinks that it is a sacrifice she is willing to make to have a child who is still alive. Now it frays at the edges.

He is gentle with it, careful as he peels it open. The penciling is faded, but still visible. He laughs when he sees some of the drawings, cringes when he sees others. If he had the choice he would have kept this book under wraps. The thought that others – probably hundreds – had seen these drawings makes his stomach seize with embarrassment. But he pushes past it without a second thought, and it bubbles up as laughter instead.

The second sketchbook is newer, in better condition. It fills a gap between November 1937 and August 1939. It locks into place like a puzzle piece, and it is more satisfying than it should be. He lifts the cover and freezes. Bucky stares back at him, skin slick with sweat and a lazy grin on his face. Steve takes a deep breath and continues to flip pages.

Bucky is dotted throughout, but he appears in quantities that are tolerable. Steve’s eyes skim past his pages. Sometimes they fall too long on a line and his chest seizes, all he can think of is the pacing and harsh sting of words and the final slam of a door. Natasha sends him messages, small updates. He hates when she does. He doesn’t want her to ever stop.

He is four records in, side A when he reaches his last sketchbook. It is labeled 1942, and it was bought for him by a salesman he knew who kept his shoes immaculately polished and never told a soul about the four years of his life that he went drinking regularly with the man who would one day become Captain America. Inside the front cover “FROM ME + MISSUS. MERRY CHRISTMAS 1942 STEVE-O, MAY YOUR HANDS CRAMP AS MUCH AS EVER” is written in dark ink. Steve trails his fingers across the message.

He is not three pages in when a slip of paper falls from deep within the book, hits his shoes. He furrows his brow, places the book open on the coffee table and goes digging. It is folded, not yellowed. Modern. Steve unwraps it. “American Art in th/ 20th Cent. – DODSON p 143”

Something pricks at Steve’s back. There is recognition here. He turns from the note back to face his bookshelf. There are empty spaces, the abandoned homes of books that Bucky had taken to read. They now pile in stacks around the room, untouched. Steve leaves them just as he leaves the couch, approaches the shelf and grabs a book from the left, fourth row from the bottom. “American Art in the Twentieth Century” by E. J. L. Dodson. It is a solid book, with weight to it. Steve grabbed it from a bookshelf at a used bookstore because of the title, a wondering of is relevancy. He hasn’t opened it yet.

He turns to page 143 and stills. Steve trails his eyes across the page.

“ _Since Rogers never kept a formal journal or diary, the best record of his life can be seen through his many sketchbooks. Early drawings like his pre-war ‘Untitled, April 11 th, 1941’ drawing of the New York marketplace (pictured above, left) suggest a great deal of optimism, even at a dark economic and social time in American history. _

_The people in the marketplace are shown to have kind faces and very open body language. There is a great amount of attention given to every item drawn in the scene. At the time of the particular drawing, Rogers was gravely ill and reportedly too weak to even walk up a flight of stairs without assistance. Along with illness, Rogers was suffering financially and would continue to suffer financially until becoming America’s first and last Super Soldier…”_

 

That night, his mind spins.

\--

“Do you still draw?” Bucky asks. They are in France. There is rain falling from the infinite dark of the sky. The cold binds them, and the Commandos, together.

Bucky’s voice is quiet. It is a question meant only for Steve. Around them, the others buzz in the warm haze of camaraderie. “Of course,” he says.

“Haven’t seen you lately,” Bucky tells him. He sounds empty, but Steve ignores it because he has to. He’ll regret it every day of his life.

“Haven’t really gotten the chance,” Steve replies, and there is humor in his tone. He smiles. It’s warm, and bright. Bucky attempts at a return, but it falls flat. It is a mere echo.

“Don’t blame you,” he says, and it is almost a joke. It has the bones of a joke, the bones of an easy sway.

But nothing is easy anymore.

\--

_“… After going overseas and seeing military action, Rogers went through a brief ‘Dark’ Period. He moved away from gentle scenes and delicate shading as had become his norm and veered to more raw subjects. His untitled drawing commonly referred to as ‘Picture of a Dead Soldier’ (pictured above, right) from mid 1943 shows a lush forest with a lifeless Hydra soldier laying on the ground, serving as the focal point._

_Unlike the drawing of the New York marketplace, there is very little attention given to the subject. The Hydra soldier’s face is far less detailed than the faces of other works by Rogers, though the soldier’s wounds are shown with painstaking detail. The forest background is drawn with harsher and darker strokes, giving the piece a sense of urgency...”_

\--

“I get to see this when it’s finished, right?” Sam asks.

Steve nods without looking up from his sketchbook. “Of course,” he says. He is distracted by focusing on the curve of lines, the shade of his pencil.

“You know, you should do one of Clint and an actual hawk,” Sam says. “Like you’re doing with me and a falcon.”

“A comparative work,” Steve offers the term, glancing briefly at Sam.

“Yeah. Maybe even Natasha and a spider,” Sam says, taking a moment to laugh to himself. “Dunno how well she’d pose, though.”

“Natasha poses very well,” Steve says. “She’s amazing. Makes faces, though.”

“Faces?” Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Sticks her tongue out,” Steve offers, shifting his legs. “Crosses her eyes.” The memory catches in Steve’s throat, restricts his breathing for a moment. Natasha was – is – a friend. The tensions between them that were born and wrapped around Bucky have been pulled tight for months. He misses the ease of her at his side, the respect and competency and occasional bad jokes that never really stopped catching him off guard.

Steve glances up to see Sam posing strangely, pursing his lip and locking their eyes. “What are you doing?”

“It’s called ‘blue steel’,” Sam replies. His look intensifies. “Ever hear of it?”

Steve bites on his bottom lip to keep from laughing. “No, I haven’t,” he says. “And I’m kind of glad.”

“What!” Sam exclaims. “The blue steel is classic, timeless.”

“Quit movin’,” Steve tells him, leaning forward. The work is almost complete. It is one of many that clutter his apartment. The place is a mess with art supplies and half-finished canvasses. It’s dreamlike in quality, one from a childhood pressed against his mother in their one bed in their one room apartment. Sam gives him an easy smile. There is something Steve must ask.

“Hey, you doing anything Friday night?”

Sam furrows his brow. “Not really. You got anything in mind?”

“Got anything to wear to a black tie?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sam crosses his arms. “Got a suit from my cousin’s wedding that might do the job. We going someplace I won’t be able to afford?”

“Won’t have to afford anything,” Steve replies, putting the finishing touches on the drawing. “Any interest in being my plus one?”

“Depends on where we’re going,” Sam says. His body relaxes as he watches Steve set the artwork aside.

“Stark event, fundraiser dinner at the Avengers tower,” Steve says. “People are going to talk if I keep putting them off. Have to make an appearance sometime.”

“Wait, hold up,” Sam says, places a hand out. “Are you asking me if I want to have dinner with _Tony Stark_?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, he’ll be there –“

Sam takes a seat directly across from Steve on the coffee table. Their eyes are level. “Steve, I know you see Tony all the time, but you gotta look at it from my perspective – you are asking _me_ if I want to have dinner with _Iron Man_ at his _house_.”

“Is that a yes?” Steve asks.

“Of course it’s a yes!” Sam replies. “In what world would I possibly say no to this?”

Steve chuckles to himself. Warm afternoon sunlight casts a glow across the two. He can see the haze of dust particles float through the air. It is almost a year since the Potomac, the days and weeks between then and now seems almost incomprehensible to him. There is death and growth curled around the passage of time. There is Bucky; a moment where his entire world stopped turning.

He thinks of the horrors he read about that took place in the Red Room, the pictures and stories he found in the file. His chest seizes momentarily and he exhales harshly.

“You alright?” Sam asks.

“Of course,” Steve says. “Now quit moving, I’m trying to finish.”

He wonders about Bucky.

\--

_“…_ _Rogers’ Dark Period lasted approximately five months, ending in the early Winter of 1944. At this time, he began spending more time on specific studies than drawing scenes. His ‘Study of Icicles’ (pictured below, right) indicated the end of the harsh and aggressive lines of his Dark Period. The icicles are drawn with gentle lines and shading that are more common in his earlier work, bringing back a sense of wonder and hope that had been severely lacking in months prior… “_

\--

“Where’s your shadow?”

Steve cringes, turns his body to the right where Tony Stark stands. They are both facing forward from the sidelines; watching guests in fine clothing mingle. Sam is chatting up a Japanese neurosurgeon a few feet away. She thinks he’s handsome, turns toward his body. He is enchanted by her eyes and the slope of her neck.

“Dunno,” Steve replies, taking a sip of his drink. The hair on the back of his neck is on end. He wishes that he were at home, focused deep on an art project and halfway through the B-side of a favorite album.

“You don’t know?” Tony asks. He raises an eyebrow in an almost theatrical manner, takes a sip of his drink. “How can you not know? Did you lose him on the –“ Tony stops. Steve turns to watch the information process through his brain. He narrows his eyes. “He never told you, did he?”

Steve freezes, the ice creeps through his veins and stops at the tips of his fingers. He imagines it sending a sheet of frost across the cool glass of his drink. “Tell me what?” he asks, but his voice sounds hollow.

“’Bout the arm,” Tony answers nonchalantly. He makes no motion, but he hangs himself casually at Steve’s side. There is a sense of a shrug in his body language. “I told him to tell you,” Tony adds. Steve swallows. His back is stiff, his arms are straight. _Of course_ , he thinks. Tony gave Bucky the arm. He’d have to talk to Tony tonight. Two and two had not placed themselves together in his head.

He thinks of art and Sam and E.J.L. Dodson and realizes there were other things on his mind.

“Hope he hasn’t been sleeping on the couch for too long,” Tony says. The choice of language makes the corner of Steve’s lip pull downward into a frown, but Tony does not dwell on it. There is no weight placed there.

Steve steels his jaw, thins his lips. He takes a deep breath. His eyes rest on Sam and the Japanese neurosurgeon. “How did he seem?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” Tony replies. He takes a sip of his drink, shoves his hand in his pocket. They do not face each other.

“When he came in,” Steve continues, “What was he like?” He turns toward Tony just slightly, enough for there to be contact made.

There is a moment of silence between. Tony blinks once, looks Steve up and down, and then blinks again. His licks his lips, scratches his jaw. His entire body resettles. “He was determined,” he finally says, in a voice that is low and uncharacteristic. Steve is at rapt attention. “A little crazy,” Tony adds, “But he knew what he was doing.”

Steve nods, inhales once. He chews on his lower lip. “Did he tell you why he wanted it back?” he asks. His voice is strong, but there are edges of uncertainty. It does not shake, but its strength is fragile.

“Said he wanted to help people. Asked him why he couldn’t go feed orphans or something. Seems like hanging out with superheroes got to his head,” Tony replies dryly. He pauses for a moment, and then adds, “It sounds like the guy had some baggage.” Steve nods again.

“Thank you, Tony,” he says. They stand on uneasy ground. Tony casts a glance at his drink, swirls it, and then looks back up.

“Is that the Falcon?” he asks, louder and clearer. They are back to reality.

“Yeah, that’s Sam,” Steve says. “You know he’d love to meet you.”

“Of course,” Tony says. He steps away from Steve, turns on his heel to face him. “Who wouldn’t?” He leaves with a smirk.

Steve downs his drink.

\--

Natasha stretches out like a cat, cracks her neck and places the elaborate earrings she wore to lunch on the dresser. The sun sets later and later every day, and now it is just peaking over the horizon. She can hear Bucky moving somewhere else in the apartment. She massages the side of her head and watches the city.

Her phone vibrates against the hard wood of the dresser. STEVE, it says. She lifts an eyebrow.

“Hallo,” she answers.                        

“Hey Natasha,” she hears from the other end of the line. His voice is casual, but brimming with emotion. There is silence in the background.

“Steve,” she greets. “What’s up?” she asks, placing her weight on his right hip and curling her left arm around her waist.

“Nothing,” Steve replies. “Nothing important,” he corrects. “How have you been?”

Natasha smirks. “I’ve been fantastic. I took a forty minute shower and had a fancy lunch. How about you?”

“I’ve been alright,” he says with a sigh over the line.

“Gossip rags had you at a Stark fundraiser,” Natasha says. She sits back at the edge of her bed, crosses her legs. She likes the smoothness of nylon against nylon. It is a strange comfort.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says. “There was that.”

“Who’d you talk to?” Natasha asks. “Without me there to save you,” she adds. There is humor in her voice. She hopes the message comes across.

“Brought Sam this time,” Steve replies with a chuckle. The sound makes Natasha smile. She slides further back on her bed.

“Why did you call?” she asks. There is no reply. “Text updates not enough?” she adds. Her voice is gentle, warm. Somewhere in the apartment, Bucky stops moving.

She hears a deep breath on the other line. “How’s he doing?” Steve asks.

Natasha looks down at the floor, picks at the cotton of her bedspread. “He’s been doing very well,” she replies.

“Has he?” Steve asks. His voice breaks. _You were lovers_ , she thinks. Bucky’s confirmation is fresh in her mind.

“Yes,” she responds. Her voice is hollowed, raspier than usual. She is far away. “He asked me to train him. We’ve been training.” There is a moment of silence. “He’s not…” She pauses, tries to think of the words. “He’s not the same person that he was when he came to me,” she decides upon.

“Is he happy?” Steve asks, and the question is so honest that it pulls at Natasha’s heart. She frowns.

“You’ll have to ask him that yourself, Steve,” she answers, licking her lips.

“Thank you,” Steve replies.

“Any time,” Natasha says.

The conversation is over. Natasha places the phone at her side on the bed. Down the hall, she hears Bucky walk away.

\--

_“…The last known drawing by Rogers, ‘March 7th, 1945’ (pictured below, right) is a detailed drawing of his fallen best friend and fellow Howling Commando James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. While all of his wartime drawings were detailed, not a single drawing rivals the amount of time and emotion put into this portrait of Barnes. Barnes is shown looking to his left and smiling absently, every nuance of his expression accounted for. Finished days after Barnes’ death, ‘March 7th, 1945’ shows the deep bond Rogers and Barnes shared through the care and detail put into the portrait._

_It is considered to be Rogers’ personal memorial for Barnes_ … “

\--

When Steve gets the phone call, he is painting in the living room of his apartment. His hands are stained with vibrant colors, and he is humming along to a song on the oldies station.

“Hello,” he answers, trying his best not to get blue paint on his phone.

“Steve Rogers,” the voice on the other end of the line says. Steve furrows his brow.

“Fury?” he asks.

“I have a couple of questions for you,” Fury says. Steve frowns. “Now before you get your panties in a twist, let me explain. Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Is this the kind of conversation best suited to a phone call?” Steve asks, but it is also a challenge. On the other end of the line, Fury is smiling.

“It’s about James Barnes,” he says. Steve’s heart drops.

He swallows. “What about him?” he asks. He feels cold. It’s creeping up his spine.

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

Steve’s lip twitches into a frown, he takes a deep breath. “No,” he says. “Not in months.”

There is silence from the other end, then grumbling. “That’s what Natasha thought,” Fury says.

“Natasha?” Steve repeats. He leans against the back of the couch, away from his painting (repaint of Ruth Mathers in a blue dress – experimenting with color).

“Yeah, she had a feeling you two hadn’t been chatting. I wanted to see for myself,” Fury explains.

“Could’ve asked Bucky,” Steve points out.

“I wanted to ask you,” Fury replies. His voice is stern. Steve realizes that he missed it.

“Why do you want to know about Bucky?” Steve asks.

“There’s an initiative –“ Fury begins.

“An initiative?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Let me finish,” Fury growls. “It’s ex-SHIELD. Same guys who fought beside you in DC. Independent agents working on contracts with big name intelligence agencies. CIA, FBI, etcetera. Rebuilt from the ground up. We’d love to have you.”

“I’m not interested,” Steve replies. “What does this have to do with Bucky?”

“We’d love to have Barnes, too,” Fury says. Steve’s gut reaction is to cringe, to freeze. Tony hangs at his side. Natasha whispers in his free ear.

“Listen to me,” Bucky had said. “I am up here,” he had pleaded, pointing at his head. “And I am trying to talk to you.”

“Why did you want to talk to me?” Steve asks. His voice is hard.

“You know him best,” Fury replies. _No, I don’t_ , Steve thinks. _I don’t at all._ “I suppose you don’t mind sharing why you two haven’t spoken since February?”

“We had a fight,” Steve answers.

“You fought?” Fury repeats.

“Not – not like that,” Steve says. “We argued and Bucky left. He went to Natasha’s.”

“That’s what I thought,” Fury tells him. His voice is smooth, deep. Steve takes a deep breath.

“Fury, what do you want to know? Why did you call me?” Steve asks. His patience wears thin. His hands shake.

There is a moment of silence, and then Fury answers with “Rogers, I respect you. Dancing around an issue is not how I’ve made it this far, so I’m going to be frank. Do you think Barnes is suitable for intelligence work?”

Steve’s heart sinks, and he swallows. “Isn’t Natasha better suited to answer this question?”

“I already know Natasha’s vote,” Fury says. “I want to hear yours.”

_Is it terrible, or does it scare you?_

Steve closes his eyes, shuts them so tight he can see the colors and patterns behind his lids. “He wants this,” he says. “I’m not sure if he knows what he’s doing, but –“ Steve feels like he’s falling apart. “But I think that he can handle it.”

He can hear Fury take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Thank you for your cooperation, Rogers,” Fury says. “I hope we’ll see each other around.”

The phone clicks. Steve wishes the city would sink into the sea.

\--

Here is a scene from January:

They are curled beneath the sheets. Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, longer now than it was, and presses a kiss against his forehead. Bucky nuzzles closer, places his head in the crook of Steve’s neck until the only thing that he can smell is Steve, all fresh linen and cool cologne. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, places one hand behind his heart. It beats strong, alive.

“Good night, Buck,” he whispers.

\--

There is April sunlight streaming through the window and Steve lets it warm his back and neck while he reads. Talk radio drones in the background. The morning is new, fresh. Steve takes a bite out of his toast and continues to scan the page.

His phone rings at his side, and he picks it up without thinking. It is only when it is too late; when he has already hit the answer button that he realizes its Bucky’s ringtone.

“H-hello?” he stammers. Everything fades to the background.

“Steve?” he hears, and it’s Bucky. Clear as day it’s Bucky’s voice through the phone, strong and vital and alive and saying his name.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, but his voice is weak. “What’s up?” he asks for lack of anything better to say.

“Not a whole lot,” Bucky responds, and he sounds so casual, so fine. “How about you?”

Steve swallows hard, swallows so hard he thinks he might choke. “Nothing important,” he says.

There is silence that stretches across the centuries.

“Hey, look, I was wondering you wanted to grab a bite to eat tonight,” Bucky says. Steve thinks this is a dream.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah, sure. That sounds good. What time?”

“Seven, if it, uh, if it works for you.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Yeah, that works for me just fine.”

“Good,” Bucky says. He is unreadable through the phone. “Good. I’ll, um, I’ll see you then.”

“Sure,” Steve says, but he wants to say ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m sorry’. “Sure.”

“It was, uh, it was nice talking to you, Stevie.” Steve’s heart leaps into his throat.

“It was good to hear your voice,” Steve says, thinks for a moment that it might have been too honest and stops.

“It was good to hear yours too,” Bucky says, and Steve thinks that he can hear a crack, a waver in in his voice.

“See you tonight,” Steve says, but he wants to talk forever.

“See you at seven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to tumblr user johnymarr for writing the fantastic art analysis! 
> 
> And thank you to everybody who is reading. :)


	39. and never leave (part two)

Steve has no idea what he is doing.

He has hands in his pockets, hair styled back, rocking on the heel of his shoe. It’s 7:08, and he’s standing in the foyer of a restaurant whose address Bucky texted to him three minutes after the end of their phone call. It’s a small bistro, dimly lit but warm in color. It is sparsely packed and low-key in nature. Steve wonders idly if Bucky is standing him up.

He checks the time on his phone and scrolls through his notifications. There is nothing, no messages or reminders. He swallows, glances out the window at the darkness of the evening. It’s a quiet night. It’s a good night to be at home painting or sketching, talk radio on in the background of whatever sound Steve is tuning out. Anxiety pricks in his chest. He scrolls through his notifications again. At home, with his art and with Sam – that’s normal.

Now, this is something else entirely.

His final worried glance returns him a time of 7:12. _I’ll give him ‘til 7:20,_ he thinks, fully knowing that he’d give Bucky until the end of time itself if he needed to. He swallows hard, casts another glance out the window, and freezes.

Bucky slinks past the window like a flickering light, enters and brings the still-chilled air of April in with him. It’s not the only cold that comes in; his whole demeanor is set to be frosty. He stands tall and straight, steady. His clothes are black and tailored, well-fit, and he has gained the muscle necessary to fill out the entirety of his frame. His hair is cropped short, slicked back in a way that makes Steve think that if he blinks once he’ll be in ’38 again, if he blinks twice he’ll be in 2015. Bucky is clean-shaven, solid. Whole.

His heart skips a beat.

There is a strangled cry in the back of Steve’s throat, but he steels his jaw and looks forward. “Hey Bucky,” he manages to say. His voice is as even as possible, it doesn’t falter and doesn’t swell or fall in volume, but Steve has never had a good poker face and it shows now more than ever.

“Steve,” Bucky replies, and he sounds as cold as his demeanor would imply. Steve searches his face – his eyes, vibrant with life but still emerging only from dark bags, his lips jutting but still. Steve can remember kissing them, the feel of them against his own and against his neck and the rest of him. The way that they formed words in Brooklyn, or laughed, or spit his name out when the worst thing that could happen happened.

“You look great,” Steve offers, because it’s the truth. It’s more truth than he can bear.

“Thanks,” Bucky replies, stepping toward the woman working the front desk. “You don’t look too bad yourself,” he adds in a voice that’s so casual Steve thinks he might have heard the same line used on girl after girl in Brooklyn.

“Thanks,” Steve replies strongly, solidly, but he wonders if Bucky even catches it. He speaks to the waitress with charm, and the two are seated in silence.

“Some place private,” he hears Bucky request in a whisper. She nods and her dangling earrings hit the side of her neck.

They are seated against a wall in a section of the restaurant nearly closed off by decoration. The lighting is warm and hazy, and the privacy that the spot affords them is comforting. Strategically, Steve notes, it also allows them strength in observation and defense.

Bucky sits across from Steve, places his elbows on the table and grasps his hands together. There are gloves on his hands of black leather. Steve catches a glint of his metal arm in the light. His heart stutters, he licks his lips and runs his hands along his thighs. It’s a calming action. Bucky notices. Outwardly, he does not react, but inside his heart drips.

_I don’t know if I can be what you want_ , he thinks.

“So,” Steve says, clasping his own hands together. “How have you been doing?” he asks, for lack of anything better to say.

Bucky pauses for a moment, thinks. “I’ve been alright,” he answers. “Nat’s been training me,” he adds.

Steve nods, bites his lip. “How’s that been going?” he asks, and he thinks his voice is about to crack so he takes a sip of water immediately after he finishes speaking.

Bucky takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he answers, but there’s more than that. The truth is: freeing. Illuminating. Exactly what he needed. “How’ve you been?”

Steve sets the glass of water down. Images of his art, of the phrases in the books flash through his head but their meaning is dulled to him. “Alright, I guess,” he answers. It’s an honest appraisal.

There is a long pause between them. Steve looks at his hands. Bucky picks at the basket of bread set between them.

Finally, he says, “I’m working with Fury now.” His voice is noncommittal, but his heart braces itself.

“I know,” Steve replies immediately. Bucky’s eyebrows lift at lightning speed.

“What do you mean you know?” he asks with more spunk than he means to.

“He called me,” Steve answers, scratching at his chin.

“He did?” Bucky asks, and his face twists with a mixture of betrayal and curiosity.

“I mean, he didn’t –“ Steve starts, placing a hand out. It shakes. “I don’t think he was trying to – he just wanted to know if I thought that you would be okay to handle missions.”

“What did you say?” Bucky shoots back. He’s more vibrant now, more Bucky than he was when he entered the restaurant. In a way, it’s comforting. He blazes like a fire, doesn’t freeze the two of them where they sit at the table.

Steve swallows, speaks with a lower voice. It counteracts Bucky’s force. “I told him that I hadn’t seen you in a while,” he says, and his voice drips with so much sadness that Bucky catches himself backing down. “But I had no reason to believe that you couldn’t handle it,” Steve adds, even lower. It catches Bucky off guard.

He leans further back in his seat, swallows and takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Steve,” he says.

“It wasn’t a problem,” Steve replies. He runs his fingers along the condensation of the glass of his drink. Steve looks down for a moment, and then looks up. He opens his mouth, and Bucky already knows what he’s going to say. “Bucky, I’m sorry –“

“No,” he says, and it stops Steve dead in his tracks. “Steve, I’m sorry. I should have told you.” It spills out of his mouth faster than he thought it would.

Steve chokes on a laugh, says “Yeah, you should have,” with a tone that is less bitter and more regretful. “But I was a dick, Bucky, I was just –“

“Just what?” Bucky asks, more on edge than he wants to be.

“Scared,” Steve answers. His voice is definite, firm. “I was scared you were going to get hurt,” he elaborates. His arms are crossed over the table.

Bucky frowns, takes a deep breath. “I can take care of myself,” he says.

Steve returns his frown with a sad, reaching smile. “I know, Buck,” he says. “I know you can.” His voice trembles. He takes another sip of his water, is about to speak again when the waitress approaches.

She’s sweet, a nice girl. Her lips are cherry red and her blonde hair is tied in a low bun behind her head. Neither of them have opened the menus. Bucky orders something off the top of his head. Steve flounders, orders the first thing that he sees. She leaves them with a sweet smile and the trailing scent of perfume.

Steve turns back to Bucky. “So, when do you start with Fury?” he asks, taking another sip of his water.

“I already have,” Bucky replies, and it takes every ounce of self-control for Steve to not spit out his drink. “We chased down a HYDRA cell in Mexico,” Bucky adds.

“Oh,” Steve sets, placing the water on the table. His hand shakes as he does it. Bucky notices. “How did it – did it go alright?”

Bucky shrugs. “As well as it could go,” he says. Steve glances down, nods briefly.

“Was it – did it –“ he tries, but he can’t find the words.

Bucky places them for him. “I made the right choice,” he says.

Steve nods again, chews on the inside of his cheek. “Good,” he says. “Good,” again, stronger. “I’m glad for you.” And he means it, too, means it even if it hurts. He takes another deep breath, then says “How’s the arm?”

Bucky place his left wrist forward, shove his sleeve up and flicks it once, twice. Steve can hear the low mechanical whirring, see it reflect the warm light of the restaurant. “Fine,” Bucky says. “It’s better than my old one. Stark upgraded it.”

“It looks good,” Steve says.

“It looks the same,” Bucky tells him.

A genuine grin creeps across Steve’s face. “Yeah, it does.” He has to swallow a low laugh.

“I told Stark that,” Bucky says, rescinding his arm and pulling his sleeve back down. Steve watches his fingers work.

“What did he say?” Steve asks, eyes on Bucky.

Bucky offers a small smile. “I think he got offended.”

Steve smiles, too, “You should have seen him when he found out I bought an iPhone and not a Starkphone.”

“What was he like?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Irate. Called me screaming about Steve Jobs and tech stuff, it was all – “ Steve waves his hand “ – didn’t make any sense to me either way.” Steve leans forward across the table. “He sent me _four_ Starkphones for Christmas.”

“ _Four_?” Bucky repeats.

“Four. Brought it up every time I saw him until I finally said ‘Look, enough, I don’t care enough to fight this’.” Steve holds up his Starkphone.

“Aww, Stevie,” Bucky says. “Should’ve kept that man in misery.”

Steve holds up one finger. “Not the best part,” he says. “No, I brought it up to him later. Mentioned how obsessed he was with trying to get me a Starkphone. You know what he said?”

“What’d he say?”

Steve sits up straight, mimics Tony’s movements and posture. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says in an impression that is simultaneously so bad and so good it makes Bucky crack up.

“I think I like him,” he says after catching his breath. He has a smile that’s so easy it breaks Steve’s heart.

“I don’t mind him, I guess,” he returns with his own warm smile. There’s an easy, soft pause between them. “Been seeing Sam a lot,” Steve says, to fill the space.

“I know,” Bucky replies. He has a mouth full of bread from the centerpiece on the table.

“You do?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“Nat, uh, mentioned it.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky nods, swallows. “How’s he been?” he asks, and he means it. Sam is easy, warm. He has a glow to him that Bucky likes. He is like a moth to flame.

“Alright,” Steve replies.

Bucky scratches at his neck. “What you guys been up to?”

Steve shrugs. “A lot of things,” he says. A low smile cracks across his face. “Video games, sometimes.”

Bucky sputters. “Video games?” he repeats, his voice an octave higher.

Steve holds out a hand. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

“I’m not knockin’ it, I’m just surprised is all,” Bucky replies with a toothy grin.

“Surprised about what?” Steve asks, but he is playing devil’s advocate. His movements are smooth and he takes another drink of water.

“Didn’t think you were the video game type,” Bucky offers.

Steve snorts. “Me either,” he answers honestly.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “So – what are they? Like, what do you do?”

“Don’t laugh,” he says.

“Promise I won’t.”

“We can do anything, really,” Steve answers. “I don’t really like shooting games. But some of them have puzzles and other things. I like the fantasy ones the best.” Steve flicks his eyes to Bucky, who is trying is hardest not to laugh. “Bucky, you’d love video games,” he says.

Bucky breaks, snickers in his gloved hand. “I dunno, Stevie,” he says. “Don’t know if they’re for me.”

“They would have been,” Steve says, and his words fall heavy on the conversation. “I mean – I don’t mean – I mean if we had grown up with them. They would have been.”

Bucky lifts an eyebrow, but lets it fall. He grins. “I don’t know if I’d have ever gone outside,” he admits, lower and conspiratorial in tone.

“Would have made being sick more fun,” Steve adds, leaning forward.

“Steve, I don’t think you understand,” Bucky says. “I do not think I would have ever gone outside,” he repeats in a more serious tone.

Steve breaks away laughing. “Nah, you would have,” he tells him. “You were always the go-getter,” he adds.

“So were you,” Bucky says, grabbing another piece of bread. Steve furrows his brows. “I mean it,” he continues, with a mouthful of bread, “You were always doing something or talking with someone. Or getting into a fight.” He swallows, and the smile fades from his face. “And then when I – when I was coming back and, uh, and you weren’t –“ He breaks off then, drags a hand down his face. Steve’s heart skips a beat. “That’s when I knew that –“

“Bucky, I’m sorry,” Steve says.

“Steve –“

“No, I am.” Steve takes a deep breath, continues without letting Bucky intervene. “I placed a lot of my self-esteem on you, and that wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair to you or me.” Silence falls on the table. “I’m seeing a therapist now –“

“I know,” Bucky says. “I mean, I remember. I remember.” He glances at the table, glances back up. “Is it, uh, is it helping?”

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s been helping a lot.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

“Steve, I should’ve told you,” Bucky says, voice raw with emotion but strong, nowhere near fragile.

Steve takes a moment to think. “Why didn’t you?” he asks. He is exposed like a nerve.

Bucky chews on his lip, casts a glance at the floor and then says “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

Steve’s lip twitches. He snorts. “Guess you weren’t wrong,” he says, and his voice is dripping with bitterness.

Bucky sniffs. “Nat thinks that you would have,” he says. Steve lifts an eyebrow. “If I’d given you the chance to.”

Steve weighs it in his head, but it presses darkly on his heart and he continues with “How is she?”

“She’s alright,” Bucky answers. There is a history of the two of them in his head. There are quickly fading bruises in the shape of her finger tips on his right wrist from an earlier sparring incident. “We’ve’ – she’s – she’s helped me with the, uh –“ Bucky stops speaking, taps his glass. “The Winter Soldier part of me.” He doesn’t want to look up, but he can almost feel Steve nodding. “Helping me deal with that,” he finishes.

Steve swallows. “You seem to be doing well,” he says. His voice is thick with emotion that Bucky can’t begin to decipher or read.

“I am,” Bucky says. “Steve, I – I am. I think I’m doing the right thing.”

“Good for you, Buck,” Steve says. “I’m proud of you.” He means it. “I shouldn’t have tried to stop you,” he adds, and it eviscerates his heart and leaves him dripping, dead.

“Thank you, Steve,” Bucky tells him.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything.”

“No,” Bucky says. His voice shakes. “I do – you – I was a wreck when you found me, Stevie, I was –“

“You’ve come a long way,” Steve replies. He sounds warm, but resigned.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and the rawness of the emotion makes his voice crack. “I didn’t think I was ever gonna get this far.”

Steve cracks a smile, but it trembles. “Me either, Buck,” he says.

They take a moment to breath.

“Natasha knows about us,” Bucky tells him.

“About us?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “ _Us,_ ” he emphasizes.

“Oh,” Steve says. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How did she?” he asks, running his last conversation with her over and over again in his head.

“She figured it out,” Bucky answers.

“Oh,” Steve says, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and it’s enough to pull him out of his head. “I don’t think she cares,” he tells him, his voice breaking into a laugh. Steve laughs too, chuckles nervously, runs his hand through his hair and snorts.

“So, are you two… ?” he asks.

“Are we what?”

Steve takes a deep breath. “I mean, are you two together?” Bucky’s puzzled face is almost enough of an answer, but Steve adds “I know you have a history.”

Steve doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not a barked out laugh. Bucky smiles, shakes his head. “No, no Steve. Not at all,” he says, taking a sip of water. “If – if I have the choice, I think that I only like men.”

“Oh,” Steve says. In his head, he runs through Bucky and every girl he came home smelling like. The women he wined and dined, fingerfucked in doorways. Amelia Wilkes with her sad eyes and skinny frame, Ruth Mathers who had bright red lips and hands that could almost curl into claws. The over the top bravado, tales of Bucky’s conquests. _An act._

The way Bucky’s eyes would sometimes linger too long on him as he worked. The way he’d talk about Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, Frank Sinatra sometimes, too, even if neither of them could stand the music, an appreciation that was almost too zealous to just be about the style. The nights he spent out drinking too late in France, came back smelling like sex but not perfume.

“Oh, okay,” Steve says again, and things make too much sense.

Bucky takes a sip of water, sets it down and asks “So, what else have you been up to?”

Steve blinks once, twice, leaves his head and rejoins the conversation. “I’ve been drawing a lot, actually,” he says, and it almost embarrasses him to admit it. He doesn’t understand why, lets the emotion pass and leans toward Bucky.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, and his lips curve upward into a smile.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he repeats, and the embarrassment is back again. “It’s been, um, it’s been good,” he says.

“What have you been drawing?” Bucky asks. His face is alive and animated, nonjudgmental but curious.

“Anything,” Steve replies. He swallows once, thinks for a moment and then continues with “Actually, lately I’ve been doing redraws. I got some of my sketchbooks from the Smithsonian. I’ve been redrawing some of my older stuff.”

“Good for you,” Bucky says, and he means. Something in his heart twitches with pain. It comes from the loss of time, the distance.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he is retracing the layout of his apartment, the pieces of his artwork strewn about. He stops at one, smiles and says “Do you remember Ethel?”

Bucky nods, and Steve is relieved, continues with “Do you remember the drawing of the flamenco dancers? That’s one of the drawings that I redid.” The story is benign and lovely, but Bucky falls silent.

There is a sadness when he speaks. “That was the first drawing I saw of yours,” he says. His voice is quiet, and his words are chosen slowly.

Steve nods. “I remember,” he says, and he sounds warm, soft. Comforting.

Bucky swallows, cocks his head and says “Can I see it?”

“Sure,” Steve replies. “But it’s back at my apartment.”

The right side of Bucky’s mouth twitches upward. “Gonna let me be a gentleman and walk you home?” he asks.

Steve snorts, but his heart swells. “If either of us is a gentleman, it’s gonna be me, Buck,” he says with a smile.

“Gee, Stevie, I dunno about that,” Bucky returns, and he’s about to say something more but he’s cut off by the approach of their waitress.

Food arrives, plates are passed. Conversation is inane and normal and soft, and Steve could cry and Bucky shakes if he’s not watching himself. They eat and pay, and leave a tip that their overdone military pensions and royalties allow them. Their waitress instagrams it after she gets off her shift, walks home in the chill with the knowledge that her rent and student loan payment is covered for this month, and the month after.

Blocks away, Steve and Bucky’s laughter fills the night.

“I cannot believe that Sam did that,” Bucky says, and he wipes a tear away from his eye.

Steve nods and says “It was almost as funny as the time we found out Ethel had a boyfriend.”

Bucky frowns, furrows his brow. “Steve, you remember that as being funny?” he asks, incredulous.

“Yeah, of course,” Steve replies. “Don’t you?” he asks, and he means it. They approach Steve’s apartment.

“No!” Bucky exclaims. “No, not at all!”

“Why not?” Steve manages to say, attempting to form his words around a laugh.

“Steve, I was horrible to you!”

Steve shrugs. “Bucky, we were just kids.”

Bucky guffaws. “Steve, that is not an excuse! I was an asshole!”

Steve snorts. “C’mon Buck, both of us not knowing she was taken and then getting punched out? That was hilarious!”

Bucky shakes his head. “Steve, I never should of pushed you into a situation where you got punched! Jesus, Stevie, you got hit enough on your own; you didn’t need me making it worse.”

“Bucky, I had no idea you felt bad about this,” Steve says, laughter gone but good humor still hanging on his every movement.

“Steve, I was terrible!” Bucky says. His eyebrows are raised, and there is a skip in his step as he speaks. “And those guys I was hanging around with?”

Steve shrugs. “Hillsy turned out to be okay.”

“You know what happened to them?” Bucky asks.

“Some of them,” Steve says. “I know Ethel wrote mystery novels.”

Bucky smiles. “She did, yeah?”

“Trashy paperback romance ones, but yeah.”

Bucky snorts, breaks off into a high laugh. “Oh my god,” he says. “You know, that’s good for her.”

“I liked Ethel,” Steve says. His voice is somewhere far away, 1937. She is giving him a hug goodbye before she leaves for a college. He’ll never see her again.

He wonders briefly what she thought of Captain America.

“I know you did, Stevie,” Bucky says. He laughs to himself, says “She was a sweetheart, she was.”

“She had a crush on you,” Steve tells him.

“What?” Bucky chokes out. “After everything?”

Steve nods. “After she broke up with that monster of a boyfriend. Crush on you for _years_ , Bucky. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

“She was off-limits to me, Steve, she was all yours,” Bucky says, waving a hand. “Why did she have a crush on me? I ever tell you about that date we went on?”

Steve snorts again. The apartment is in view. “I don’t think it phased her. And do you really have to ask why? Look at you, Buck,” he says.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You flatter me, Steve.”

“Don’t look to deep into it,” Steve says, and he is caught off-guard by a playful hit to the side. He moves back, tries to catch Bucky. Bucky moves away with skill, his training is obvious. He hits the brick wall of Steve’s apartment building with a yelp that turns into laughter. The grin on his face is wide, and he meets Steve’s eyes with an unguarded openness that freezes both of them to the ground.

The moon is high, bright. The stars shine. The city sleeps, breathes. They exist in each other’s space.

Steve swallows. “You wanted to see the flamenco dancers, right?” he asks, but he knows. His voice is all business. Bucky composes himself, nods.

“Of course,” he replies, but neither of them is listening. They shuffle inside, hit the steps. They are silent as they move. The air has shifted between them.

“Been drawing me lately?” Bucky asks. It echoes in the hall.

“No,” Steve replies honestly. “No, not really.” He focuses on unlocking his door. It opens with a click. “Sorry,” he adds because he thinks he should.

Steve enters first. “Nah, Steve, I’m not wounded,” Bucky replies, following in suit. “Damn,” he says when he enters. “This place is messy.”

Steve clicks on a light. “What am I supposed to do without you here to pick up after me?” he jokes, throwing his jacket to the side.

“Shut up,” Bucky shoots back, both of them fully knowing that Bucky has never cleaned a thing in his life. Steve holds a hand out for a jacket, but Bucky doesn’t shuffle it off. He merely steps into the apartment more, almost hesitant in his movements.

“They’re over here,” Steve says, leading Bucky into the living room. The flamenco dancers are front and center, surrounded by a clutter of other drawings. Steve lets Bucky linger in silence. His eyes trail the art, heavy feet on the wood floor as he explores his own private museum. Steve catches his hand brush the cushion of the couch as he walks. It’s an action that is almost holy in nature.

Steve swallows. He knows what he has to say, but the words constrict his throat. “Would you like to take some of your things while you’re here?” he asks. Business.

Bucky stills, pauses in front of the picture of the tree. “Why?” he asks, but his voice is dead. He doesn’t turn around to face Steve.

Steve takes a deep breath. “Well,” he starts, forcing his voice to stay casual. “If you’re staying with Nat –“

“Do you want me to stay with Nat?” Bucky asks. He is unreadable.

“It’s up to you,” Steve replies. He leans against the back of the couch, crosses his arms. “I just assumed that you’d be–“

“Steve,” Bucky says. He still has not moved.

“I just assumed you’d be moving out,” Steve finishes.

Bucky turns slightly toward him, face still hidden. “Oh,” he says, and it is barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Steve says. His hands shake. “So, should I get some boxes together -?” he says, and his voice is shaking but he manages to keep it together, and Bucky says

“Do you want me to move out?”

Steve pauses. “Bucky,” he says. “You kind of already have.”

Bucky is breathing hard, but still hidden. Steve can hear the low whir of his mechanical arm as his hand curls into a fist. “Do you want me to go?” he asks, but it’s not a question of physically leaving.

It’s a question of being gone forever.

“No,” Steve answers. “I don’t,” he says. His voice is strong. “I don’t want you to move out.” Bucky keeps breathing. “I never wanted you to leave at all,” he adds, and he finally cracks.

Bucky spins on his heel, and it is dark but his eyes are wet and he says “Steve, I had to go.”

“I know you did, Buck.” And he does. He understands it in the pit of his stomach, has since the beginning of this whole ordeal.

“Steve,” Bucky starts, but his voice breaks. “Steve, I wanna come back,” and it’s honest, and true, and it hurts. It’s not a statement, but a request, a conditional surrender. There is acceptance in Steve’s words, in Steve’s actions, and Bucky’s missed them more than anything.

He thinks, _“Steve came and got me. And we went home to Brooklyn, and his apartment. The war is over, and nobody else matters, I’m gonna be with Steve because I love him._ ”

Steve takes another deep breath, tries to steel himself by grabbing onto the back of the couch. “I don’t think you were ever really gone,” he says.

Bucky’s breathing increases and he closes his eyes, covers his mouth with his hands. It’s strange to see him fall apart now that he’s so complete, so put together. Steve closes the space between them, and they fit together like they were made to.

There is an East Asian myth that exists regarding a red string. The string is tied from the smallest finger on a person’s hand to the smallest finger on the hand of their soulmate. The string may stretch and pull and tangle, but never break. The red string looped around Steve’s finger falls in a dangling line to the red string wrapped around Bucky’s. It pulls tight, twists around them as they claw together, Bucky’s mouth open and searching on Steve’s neck, and Steve’s hands through Bucky’s styled hair.  

They shed their skins and fall back to Steve’s bedroom. It’s too much. It’s not enough. They entwine, and moan, and gasp.

And they sleep curled around each other like Brooklyn.


	40. interlude iv

It is early, and the dull blue light of morning is beginning to spill from the cracks of blinds and curtains. Steve’s chest rises and falls against the cold metal of Bucky’s arm. His eyes are cast upward, tracing the cracks on the ceiling. Bucky’s are half-lidded, staring at the chair against the wall in the corner. It looks ghastly in the shadow.

“Steve,” Bucky says. His voice cracks with disuse when he speaks, stretches hoarse and monotone. It is half muffled by the bone and muscle of Steve’s shoulder.

“Yeah?” Steve asks. His own voice is clear, but quiet. He has been awake for many long minutes, but his speech still carries the weight of sleep upon it. His heart beats apprehensive.

There is a long pause. A car drives past. Bucky tightens his metal arm just enough to make a sound. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally. Steve swallows hard. The apology is fragile, shaking. It sounds like catatonia and blank eyes on the couch, or staring into nothingness.

“Sorry about what?” he asks.

“I can’t be who you want me to be,” Bucky tells him. He draws each word out slowly. They are well chosen. They sound strange when he speaks them.

Steve closes his eyes. His breath hitches. Bucky notices and frowns. “Bucky, I –“ he starts, and then he stops. “The only thing that I want for you is to be happy.”

“But I can’t make you happy.”

Steve swallows again. Bucky presses his face against Steve’s shoulder. “Bucky, you – “ He stops, thinks of before this all began. “You being alive makes me happy,” he admits. His voice cracks.

Steve can feel Bucky’s breath on his shoulder. It comes hot and wet, and sorrowful. “Steve, you know I’m gonna keep doing this. I’m gonna keep working with Fury,” he says. His voice is stronger. The fragility is gone, replaced by determination.

“I know,” Steve says.

“You gotta be okay with that,” Bucky tells him.

Steve smiles, but there is nothing funny about the situation. “You said it yourself,” he says. “You think you’re doing the right thing. And you are… you’re helping people, Buck. If that makes you happy, then that – that makes me happy.”

Bucky’s breath hitches, sputters, and he wraps his arms tighter around Steve. His face is buried completely in the warm skin of Steve’s arm. Steve closes his eyes, opts to feel only the warmth of Bucky’s body, the pressure on his chest and the weight that has been lifted from his shoulders.

He is about to fall back asleep, when Bucky speaks.

“I broke a promise to you,” he says. His voice is clear. His chin is resting on Steve’s shoulder. His eyes are bright in the gloom.

Steve blinks back sleep, has to think for a few moments before he remembers. “ _What I’m trying to say here is that you don’t need to worry about me going anywhere, no matter what happens_ ,” Bucky had said.

Steve smiles sadly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I guess you did.” Outside, a car drives past. “But you don’t have to be sorry, Bucky, if anyone should apologize –“

“No,” Bucky says. His voice has force.

“Okay,” Steve tells him. “Then neither of us should apologize.”

“Okay,” Bucky says.

“Okay,” Steve repeats. “Okay,” he says again, under his breath. His lips curl upward into a low smile, and he snorts. “Hey, at least you never got your nose pierced, or became a hipster, or anything,” he says.

Bucky snorts, chuckles lowly. He presses his forehead into Steve’s arm, shaking with laughter, then rolls away and wipes at his leaking eyes. There is a sad smile stretched across his face.

“Look at me,” he says, “Crying like some dame.”

“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” Steve points out. He shifts downward until he is lying directly beside Bucky.

“Sam tell you that?” Bucky asks. He’s still wiping at his face.

“No,” Steve answers. “Well, yeah.” Bucky smiles, retracts his hand and sniffs. “But I think that when we were kids, and they taught us not to cry, that was – that was wrong. And there’s nothing wrong with crying.”

“Sam would be proud,” Bucky mumbles. His tone is dry, but he shoots Steve an adoring, quiet look.

“I’m serious, Bucky,” Steve says, and as he speaks he thinks. They dragged a shell home from Europe, a shell that came back with emotions that brimmed and flowed, and then were tempered by the memory of some social ritual, some expectation. _Bucky got better_ , Steve thinks. _But Bucky rebuilt walls._

“I know,” Bucky whispers. His voice is delicate. A sob catches in his throat, and his breath hitches momentarily. He places a hand over his face. “I didn’t do this before,” he says, and Steve knows that before is _before_ – in a cramped apartment, in an earlier time, in Brooklyn.

“No,” Steve returns in a whisper. “You didn’t. I’d only seen you cry once after your ma died.”

Bucky heaves a ragged breath. “I wanted to cry a lot,” he admits.

Steve bites his lip. “Me too.”

Bucky chuckles lowly, rolls toward Steve again. “I guess we fought kids instead, huh?”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, I guess we did.”

Bucky swallows. “Steve,” he says. “I love you. I don’t wanna go; I never wanna go again.”

“Bucky,” Steve starts. He curls his arm around Bucky’s frame – bigger than before, more filled out. Stronger. “I never want you to go again. I love you to death.”

There are quiet, contemplative moments of silence.

They both fall back into a calm, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late turkey day (for u americans out there) surprise.


	41. now, i've walked through hell for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years!

There is a closed door. It’s painted pale cream. There is one chip a quarter inch above the brass door knob; it looks out of place enough for Bucky to furrow his eyebrows and brush his right thumb across the indent it leaves. He takes a deep breath and counts to three.

It took one (1) day for Bucky to move back in.

They waited for the sun to sit directly in the sky before they crawled out of bed. Steve watched Bucky leave through the window, tried to paint while waiting for him to return but found that he could not. He paced the hardwood, followed the footprints that Bucky himself had laid down when all he could do was walk back and forth to try and keep his mind at ease, and listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He heard them as the sun was beginning to dip into the earth, Bucky’s heavy shoes made heavier by the weight he held in his arms. His things were minimal, but enough – mostly clothing, Steve noticed. “Is Nat alright with this?” he asked.

“Practically kicked me out,” Bucky replied with a smile, spilling into the apartment and dropping his things on the counter. Steve caught the DVD case for _Hocus Pocus_ in Bucky’s box and narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Things were returned to their natural place. Bucky’s razor laid next to Steve’s in the bathroom. Bucky’s body laid next to Steve’s in the bedroom. When Steve woke up in the night, he had to take a split second to remind himself that Bucky was back. When Steve rounded a corner and saw him lounging on the couch, or hunched over a book at the kitchen table, he had to take a split second to remind himself that Bucky was back.

“You always look so shocked to see me,” Bucky had said from his place at the table. There was a crooked smile playing on his lips and an old Flash Gordon anthology in his hands.

“Well,” Steve had asked, lifting an eyebrow in Bucky’s direction before turning his back and facing the countertop. “You were gone for a couple of months; gotta get used to you being around again.”

Bucky frowned. He wanted to say ‘I never meant to hurt you’, but the words refused to form in his mouth. He tapped his fingers once, twice on the wood of the table. They made no sound.

Steve turned to face him, leaned against the counter with a page of a newspaper in hand. His eyes were scanning the page. “There’s a special on shrimp down at the market today if you’re –“

“Steve,” Bucky interrupted. His speech was short. “It’s nice to be back,” he said.

Steve smiled. “It’s nice to have you back,” he returned.

It was a comfort. It was an oddity.

It was the new forwardness and confidence behind Bucky’s motions, the independence that was almost cat-like, and when Steve realized it he laughed so hard he cried, leaving Bucky in the adjacent chair with a bewildered look on his face. Bucky stepped lightly, moved gently. It was somewhere between robot and human; too fluid to be mechanical and too poised to be natural. Steve could watch him walk for hours, look with scanning eyes and a cool, neutral face. But he could reach out and remove Bucky’s mask with one touch of his thumb on Bucky’s chin, discard it in moments of complete safety.

The waters were still and deep and they weren’t the Bucky that left, and they weren’t the Bucky in Brooklyn or Europe, but they were Bucky. Bucky refracted through the light of a diamond, spliced in half and quartered and then thrown all around again, until he pieced himself back together. Same parts, different places. They burned just as bright and beautiful.

It was a miracle in the deepest sense of the word, and Steve reflected on it as he watched Bucky read.

 _Bucky the reader_ , he mused. It’s a triumph and a victory, but it’s bizarre and somewhere deep inside Steve there exists a thirteen year old version of himself laughing incredulously. Bucky, who couldn’t be bothered to pick up a book let alone look inside of it, spending whole afternoons reading novel after novel.

“It doesn’t make sense to me the way it does to you, Steve,” he had admitted once a long time ago in 1929, a few weeks before the stock market crashed. It was a moment of unguarded honesty that Steve hadn’t been expecting and wouldn’t see again until words spilled from Bucky’s slack mouth, their meaning written in the scars on his body and the vacancy in his eyes. Steve nodded, didn’t hold it against his friend.

“What are you reading?” Steve had asked in France, post-Zola, perplexed to see Bucky curled around a thick book. Bucky had held the book up so Steve could read the title. _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea._ “Where did you get that?” Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged. “Picked it up at a shop some place back. I like it; this Captain Nemo guy’s a real piece of work.”

“Since when did you start reading?” Steve had asked. He meant it as a joke, but Bucky’s mouth thinned.

“Dunno,” he had said in response. He turned the book over in his hands, held it like he didn’t know what it was.

Steve didn’t see it again. He asked after it, once. “How’d that book end?” a quiet question whispered in the worst part of war – the waiting.

“Dunno,” Bucky had replied. “You know me,” he had said. “I don’t like reading.”

Steve had let it go.

“You ever read this?” Bucky asked in the warm light of the living room, 2015. One year ago he was tearing across Europe in a dazed panic. Now he was sprawled comfortably across the sofa, a thick old book in his left hand.

Steve was at his desk, composing a response to E. J. L. Dodson. He narrowed his eyes. “Well, first of all I can’t speak Russian, so –“

Bucky furrowed his brow, cast a glance at the Cyrillic title of the book and cracked a low smile. “Well, it’s _The Brothers Karamazov_.”

“Ah!” Steve said, leaning back. His chair creaked beneath his weight. “Dostoyevsky! I’ve read a little Dostoyevsky.” He took a moment to think, and then asked “How did you get Dostoyevsky?”

They said it at the same time. “Nat.”

“She thought I should read some of the classics,” Bucky said. “Her classics,” he clarified. “She also gave me music recommendations.” He paused for a moment. “It was mostly Russian composers and pop music from the 1990s.”

Steve laughed; it rang throughout the apartment and made Bucky’s heart skip a beat. It’s good to be back, he thought again. Good to be home.

It was watching Steve hunched over an easel in the corner, completely absorbed in his work. His hands, larger now than they were before, worked with a precision that made Bucky melt. There was a peace to his actions, a calm fallen across him that did not exist before. It flowed from Steve’s body and out into the space he occupied, not that he occupied the apartment much. He left for supplies and therapy and sight-seeings and lunch, a whirlwind of activity that clicked right in Bucky’s brain when he thought of it.

Always the go-getter, Bucky thought idly.

But Steve spent most of his time with Bucky, whether that time was lounging around the apartment or out and about. Steve’s actions were warm, eyes soft _. He should be angry at you_ , Bucky thought, not that he wanted to face Steve’s wrath. Steve had been angry enough. Steve had spent enough time alone.

Bucky runs the fingers of his right hand through Steve’s short, soft hair and thinks of the little boy cornered in an alleyway somewhere in Brooklyn, 1925. The bullies had tight fists and mean faces, and they reminded Bucky of the kids that used to throw rocks at Rebecca or the look in his father’s eyes when he raised a hand at his mother.

“Hey!” Bucky had yelled before mustering what strength he had to peel the boys one by one off of their target. “Hi,” he had said, sticking out a sweaty hand after the worst was over. “I’m Bucky.”

“I’m Steve,” the boy had told him with a mouthful of blood. It dripped from his nose and pooled on his starched, white shirt. His eyes were wide and his manner was short, but Bucky melted him with candy and jokes and the insistence of knocking daily at the door of Steve’s apartment, until they walked, laughed and spoke in tandem.

“Dunno what you ever saw in me,” Steve had admitted once on the eve of his twenty-first birthday, more drunk than he’d like to admit. Bucky was speechless.

“Could say the same to you,” he had replied, and he couldn’t say anymore. Words about Steve’s heart and valor and honesty floated to and then died in his throat because the only from that they would take was ‘I love you’.

And Bucky couldn’t say that just yet.

In the darkness of their bedroom, Steve stirred. He leaned into Bucky’s hand, and Bucky drew circles on Steve’s scalp. What would I do without you? he thought, closing his eyes. Would he still be a machine, frozen in some cell, or at the beck and call of Alexander Pierce? Would he be free but lost, drifting across highways? Dead without the satisfaction of some sense of closure?

Would he have died like a pig in Brooklyn? Fat and old, sad and alcoholic?

Bucky leaned forward and placed his lips against the back of Steve’s neck. “You didn’t have to take me back,” he whispered. After Ethel, after the war. After all of this.

“Of course I did,” Steve whispered back. His voice was hoarse with sleep and disuse. “Haven’t had a choice in the matter since 1925.” His voice was stronger now, fond in nature. A hand drifted upward to catch Bucky’s.

They closed their eyes and fell asleep.

In the morning, Steve said “Sam is coming over. Is that okay?”

Bucky snorted. “Of course it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Steve shrugged, continued to stretch before a morning run. Sam arrived at noon, and as he stepped into the apartment Bucky’s heart seized. _He hates you for what you did to Steve_ , a voice whispered in his ear. It gnawed at his gut.

“Hey, Bucky,” Sam said with a warm smile. It was an invitation. Bucky wanted to reach a hand out and take it, but he was tied back by something that made his fingers twitch and his countenance cold. He straightened his back, said little, smiled even less.

Sam let him be while he and Steve talked and laughed and joked. Bucky was rigid.

And, after Sam bid farewell, Bucky spent the better half of an hour sitting beneath the hot spray of a shower. His instincts itched to dig his fingers into his ribs, but the memory of a sharp crack of pain on his way to Nat’s the first night stopped him.

Steve stopped him, too, with a gentle rasp on the door of the bathroom.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

“I’m fine,” Bucky responded in a voice that sounded hoarser than he imagined. “It’s unlocked,” he added.

Steve came in. They sat on the floor and dried Bucky’s hair off with a towel. Bucky fought for control. “Are you sure?” Steve whispered, kneading into Bucky’s head. Bucky replied with a low moan, and gave up the fight for resistance. There was safety there.

The next time Sam dropped by was better, as was the time after that, until they were sprawled on the couch together like they had been before, comfort and familiarity bridging any distance between them. “He doesn’t hold anything against you,” Steve had whispered on the bathroom floor. “He understands.” Sam shot Bucky a warm look on the couch. Bucky thinks of the look in Sam’s eye, knows he does.

The sun rises, sinks, rises, sinks. The days grow warmer.

“Hey, what’s this?” Bucky asked one evening, picking up a book thrown open and left on a table in the hallway.

“ _Since Rogers never kept a formal journal or diary, the best record of his life can be seen through his many sketchbooks. Early drawings like his pre-war ‘Untitled, April 11 th, 1941’ drawing of the New York marketplace…”_

“Oh,” Steve responded, looking up from an easel. Bucky cringed for a moment, briefly grabbed by shame for interrupting him. “That’s, uh,” Steve began, breaking into an almost embarrassed smile, “Well, when I went under the ice they thought I was dead, and they had all of my sketchbooks so, I guess, given my status as a historical figure,” Steve cleared his throat, “There was an interest in looking at what I had done. Professionally.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, turned the book over in his hands to read the title. “American Art in the Twentieth Century,” he said. “Steve, this is –“

“Kind of embarrassing?” Steve offered.

Bucky frowned. “Amazing,” he finished. “Steve, look at this! Professional recognition for your stuff; isn’t this what you always wanted?”

Steve bit his lip. “A lot of the pieces they review were never meant to be critiqued professionally.”

“You gotta admit it’s cool,” Bucky said. “Unless their reviews aren’t so favorable?”

“No,” Steve said. “They were all very, uh, very nice.”

“Then why are you being so coy!” Bucky exclaimed.

Steve shot him a knowing glance and began to smile, low at first and then wide. “It is pretty cool,” he admitted. His slang was carefully chosen. He snorted. “I’m actually writing letters to the author of that.”

“What!” Bucky exclaimed, turning the book over again. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

Steve swallowed. “Honestly, Bucky, it embarrasses me.”

Bucky laughed. “Steve,” he said. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Steve replied. A smooth breeze from outside carried in on an open window, fluttered the curtains. It blew at Bucky’s coat as he crossed the room to run his right hand through Steve’s hair.

They end up together, on the floor.

When morning came, Bucky left for Nat’s. He trained there two (2) times a week. Before he left, he asked “Sure you don’t wanna come?”

“I’m sure,” Steve replied with a mug of coffee in hand.

Bucky left. The day past. Bucky came back.

“How was it?” Steve asked. He was boiling noodles on the stove.

“Great,” Bucky replied. “You know, you should come sometime.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve returned. He does.

It took three (3) weeks for Steve to follow Bucky to the gym. It was a repeat process that ended with them on the mats beside each other, panting and dripping with sweat. It happened every week, twice a week, until it happened more and more regularly.

“It’s been awhile,” Steve had said on the first day.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Bucky had replied. Steve threw the first punch. Bucky deflected it with easy, ended the match with Steve beneath him. “Okay, but you can’t go easy on me.”

“Sorry,” Steve had said. “I guess I’m just not used to –“

“- having a partner that can handle a super soldier?”

Steve smiled. “Yeah, I guess.” Bucky smiled back. They each followed the contours of each other’s teeth, neck, body with their eyes. “If we wanna go again you’re going to need to get off of me,” Steve had said.

Bucky was about to reply with some quip when Natasha interrupted them. “No hanky panky in my gym,” she shouted from the doorway. Bucky scrambled off with deftness and quickness. Steve was on his feet in no time.

They sparred. They trained. Natasha joined them. Clint joined them sometimes. There was power in Steve’s movements. There was comfort in the familiar.

“You know we’d love to have you,” Natasha said as he left one day. Bucky waited outside, listening to the city. Steve threw her a hard glare. “I’ll only bring it up once,” she continued. “It’s not SHIELD. It’s not even like SHIELD. It’s independent. It’s small. It’s me, him, Fury. The people that stood by you last April.” Her lip twitched. “It doesn’t have to be official. We’d love to have you on as a consult.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve said.

“Please, do,” she had replied.

He didn’t intend to, but he couldn’t help himself when the bed was empty, and Bucky was halfway across the world. “Should take three days tops,” Bucky had murmured before kissing him goodbye. “Don’t worry,” he added as he walked out the door. But Steve leaned against the wall with arms crossed and worried. He made dinner and worried. He painted and worried. He turned the light off and pressed his head against the pillow, and he worried.

And worse yet, there was an itch beneath his skin to help, to take part. The same that propelled him to sign his life away to Erskine and Philips in the first place. Steve closed his eyes, turned over in bed.

In the morning, he met Sam for breakfast. “You will not believe who called me,” Sam said. “Last night, just about to go to bed and my phone rang. I pick it up, figure it’s either a telemarketer or a butt dial, and I hear the dulcet tones of your old boss on the other end.”

“Fury called you?” Steve asked. He stabbed at his pancakes and worried.

Sam nodded. “Wants to know if I’d be interested in fighting the good fight with him. Part time, of course. I assume somebody has been bragging about me.”

“Wasn’t me,” Steve replied. There was a weight on his heart. A complication to his plans. “Would you be interested?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “Dunno. Said it before, I’m more of a soldier than a spy.” He paused. “But if they need a soldier –“ he stopped. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

Steve shrugged. “I’m alright,” he replied.

Sam watched him stab his eggs. “Are you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow but keeping his eyes glued on Steve’s plate.

“Just fine,” he lied, and as they left the diner he realized the fear of loss was no longer the greatest darkness hanging over him – it was the need to take part.

Later, he thought of the conversation when Bucky returned a few nights after, all-post adrenaline sleepy but content. It’s a feeling Steve recognized.

It’s a feeling he missed.

Steve asked how it went. Steve held Bucky while he slept. Steve trained at Nat’s. Steve spent a lonely four days in DC, wondering after the safety of Sam and Bucky halfway across the world.

“Steve, I need to talk to you,” Bucky started one evening. His voice was apprehensive. Steve bit his lip, closed the book on his lap. It was a dark, quiet evening. The weather was warmer every day.

“Yeah, Buck?” he asked.

“Look,” Bucky began, sitting down on the adjacent cushion. “I hate to bring this up, but I feel like I have to. Nat would kill me if she knew.” Steve raised an eyebrow. “There’s this mission we have, and we could really use your help.”

Steve said yes before Bucky finished. Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Bucky counts to three. Bucky knocks.

“You ready?” he asks.

The door opens and Steve steps out with a grin on his face. “I was born ready,” he says.

\--

He’s out of practice.

Steve’s holding his own in the belly of the building, an old school house converted into the headquarters of the HYDRA copycats who are currently overwhelming him. He sends a hard punch in the way of one guard and uses the brief moment of clarity to jump up, grab onto one of the lead pipes directly above him, and lands two direct kicks to the faces of two more guards. He can feel the pipe began to tremble under his weight and uses it to his advantage, wrapping his legs around the neck of another guard and swinging forward. The guard who Steve has trapped falls with a thud. There’s a loud crack and the pipe breaks, spewing steam and water into the face of new arrival. The new arrival falls backward as Steve stands up.

He’s out of practice, but he’s not helpless.

He stretches his neck, takes the brief respite to catch his breath. _Where do these people even come from?_ he thinks to himself.

“Everything kosher?” Sam radios in. He’s perched on the roof of the building, scouting perimeter.

“Everything’s secure,” Steve radios back. He’s telling the truth. His objective was to secure the boiler room. That’s done, now all he needs to do is get out. “How about you, Nat?”

“Second floor secure,” she says after a moment. She sounds breathless, but pleased. “Mission accomplished.”

“Target taken care of?” Steve asks, stepping lightly to peer around the corridor. He’s close to the side stairwell leading out of the building, he knows from the floor plans. He hugs the wall and begins to run out, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Target taken care of,” Nat radios back, sounding more assured. “Barnes?”

There is no reply. Steve’s heart drops.

“Barnes?” Natasha asks again. “If you’re available please radio in.”

It pulls at Steve’s heart, and he’s about to radio out himself with a hard “Bucky?”, but the sound of footsteps catches him off guard. He swings to face another team of guards. A bullet pierces through the air and he dodges it, feels the cold shatter of dust as it imbeds itself in a wall of concrete. Something akin to righteous fury twitches through his limbs.

There’s another gunshot and Steve deflects with the shield, the bullet ricochets elsewhere. He doesn’t wait for there to be more; instead he cartwheels forward and lands hard, heels catching the faces of the two front most guards. He’s too close and furious for long range weapons to do much help, throws his shield and lets it bounce off the structure of the building. He catches it after it slices down two more guards.

But more and more come. The fight is at first exhilarating, if annoying, but it soon becomes more and more frenzied and panicked. They are on him like dogs and he is against the wall doing the best he can. There is an inch of cold panic creeping up his lungs. He’s in a glass elevator and the men he called his friends for months are turning on him. Rumlow’s hard hands are on him now.

There’s the loud crack of a gunshot, and Steve instinctively throws the shield up and dodges a bullet that is not aimed at him. He lands hard on his left shoulder, and uses his shield to throw of the guard who mistook his moment on the ground as a sign of vulnerability. The man’s body bounces back and catches the bodies of two other guards on the way down. Steve hops to his feet, throws the shield at the corner of the ceiling so it bounces and catches one of the guards in the neck.

The other two guards are almost on their feet, and Steve is about to knock them back again but there are two more gunshots in quick succession. On instinct he blocks it, cursing the lost time, but it’s not aimed at him. There is a spray of blood from both guards, and two strangled cries. Each clutches their shoulders and falls to the ground again. Steve looks up and sees the Winter Soldier.

He hates himself for it, but he almost has a heart attack. Bucky had been deployed before the other three to help secure the building; the suit he wore had been unseen by Steve, and he’s half-shocked to see that there was very little aesthetic change from the dark uniform the Soldier wore in DC. Same black mask, same goggles. There are minute cosmetic changes, but they don’t distract from the overall look. Steve trails his eyes up and down Bucky’s form, wonders briefly if it’s a statement.

“Need some help, old man?” Bucky asks him. Steve can’t see his face, but he assumes there’s a grin hidden beneath the mask.

“Doing fine before you showed up,” Steve replies. Relief hangs over him like a cloud. “Why didn’t you radio in?”

“Too busy trying to save your ass,” he replies. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he says. Bucky nods, and his manner of movement changes. He crouches, slinks along with a gun in hand. There’s a ferocity to his manner that unnerves Steve, and the very fact that it unnerves him catches him off guard.

 _He’s on your side_ , he tells himself. _It’s Bucky._

Steve follows in suit. They are silent as they move. They are both calculating: distance to exit, distance to the plane, the number of guards based on the sound of the footsteps that are running to chase them.

One last pack of them. Steve takes the first thing, throws his shield to bounce and throw down to others. Bucky takes a shot over his right shoulder, throws out a hard metal fist in the face of the guard who tries to overwhelm him.

Steve thinks of storming bases in Germany with Bucky at his side, or taking down bullies in the alleyways of Brooklyn. They fight in the darkness, with the dim light of some hanging lamps to guide them. It smells like blood and smoke and sweat, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh, or flesh hitting metal, echoes throughout the corridor. He’s back to back with Bucky, tearing through guards like old times.

It feels _great_.

A well landed blow knocks Bucky’s mask off his face. Steve can see him snarl like an animal as he goes in for the attack. Bucky’s blows are vicious and furious, and later if Steve dwells too long upon them he is disturbed. Bucky goes for the throats, and Steve picks off the guys who think Bucky distracted is an easy target.

Bucky wraps his left hand around the throat of a guard, throws him back. Another guard tries to catch him from the behind, and Steve catches the guard instead.

“Steve!” Bucky shouts all at once, and Steve looks up suddenly very aware of the change of air pressure behind him. He turns just in time to catch a lead pipe coming down on his head. He kicks his legs out to land square in the stomach of his attacker, but it is almost too late.

Bucky shoots him in the throat with a bullet made of electricity.

The guard’s body stumbles, falls. The pipe goes crashing to the side. He is stunned.

Steve manages to get to his feet, but he is grabbed by the hand of another guard. “Hail Hy-“ he starts.

Bucky stuns him. “Shut the fuck up,” he says. He’s breathless.

They are finally done.

And Steve starts to laugh. He grabs his stomach, leans up against the side of the wall in exhaustion. Bucky frowns. Steve can’t tell, but he thinks Bucky is narrowing his eyes. Steve takes a deep breath, sighs and lets his arm hang at his side.

“That was good,” he says with a smile. Bucky looks at him stone faced, and then grabs him by his suit and pulls him into a deep kiss. Steve grins against his lips, entwines his finger in Bucky’s short hair and pushes it deeper. His heart is pounding with the adrenaline. Bucky drags his hand down Steve’s chest.

They are about to break when Sam says “Should I come back later and give you two a few moments, or -?”  
Bucky jumps, drops his hands and scoots at least two feet away from Steve. His demeanor is completely solid, stoic. Steve’s cheeks burn. He wipes at his mouth, stumbles to regain his balance. Sam is laughing, smiling warmly.

“I hate to interrupt a moment, but Romanov’s getting kind of itchy about leaving. You know how she can be.” The joke is Natasha is waiting patiently on the plane.

“No, we’re good. Everything secured?” Steve asks. He is desperately trying to regain some composure.

“Mission accomplished,” Sam replies. “Barnes, good to see you’re not dead. Radio not working?” The three of them leave the building. Steve welcomes the cool night air on his burning cheeks.

Bucky grunts a response.

They board the plane, are debriefed as they leave. Strapped into seats, they sit in twos: Steve and Bucky facing Sam and Nat. Bucky’s eyes bore holes into Sam’s face. Silence over comes them.

It is broken by Natasha. “Anybody else get the feeling that building was haunted?” Natasha asks once they are a good thirty minutes away. Her voice is even, but there is a playful light behind her eyes.

Sam laughs. “I am so glad I am not the only one. That place was scary as hell.”

“Hey,” Steve says, and Nat raises an eyebrow expecting to be scolded, but he continues with “Neither of you were in the basement. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Watch yourself,” Sam says, “I had to spend an hour in the attic of that place.”

“I heard children’s laughter coming from a classroom at one point. Thought maybe it was a trick, went to go check it out. Nothing,” Natasha adds. She’s only half-fucking with them.

“ _Children’s laughter_?” Steve repeats.

Natasha widens her eyes and nods. “Creepiest mission I’ve been on since I quit throwing punches for the KGB.”

Steve furrows his brow. “Are you counting that raid in Ottawa a few years ago? The one with the – you know –“

“The abandoned asylum?”

Steve nods. “Wait,” Sam starts. “You guys raided an abandoned asylum?”

“It was Halloween, too,” Natasha adds. There’s a small smile playing on her lips.

“Alright, rewind. I’m gonna need the story about that one.”

Nat shoots a look at Steve. “I’m pretty sure it’s classified,” she says in a smooth voice.

Steve shrugs. “You probably put it on the Internet anyway.”

Natasha’s smile widens into a grin, and she leans forward, crossing her legs as best she can in the seats. “Alright, so it’s Halloween 2013 – “ she begins. Steve interrupts to embellish details. Sam sits at attention.

Bucky says nothing and stares forward.

Eventually the plane crosses land and sea. Natasha is the first to sleep, setting herself into slumber with meaning and poise. After she falls, the conversation dwindles. The lines between Steve and Sam are strong if Steve doesn’t dwell on it. _It’s okay now_ , he reminds himself. _And Sam obviously doesn’t care._

Steve is the next to sleep, and it is an accident.

To speak or not to speak dominates Sam’s head, and he chooses the latter. He presses his back against his seat and tries to close his eyes, but he finds that he cannot relax with Bucky’s stare digging into him.

There is silence on the plane again. Sam breaks it. “Hey,” he whispers. “Look, I don’t know how things were back in the ‘40s, but –“

“How what was?” Bucky asks. His voice is hard. Sam doesn’t like it. It’s sharp and cold, and cuts.

Sam is talking to a closed door that he is accustomed to seeing open.

“Don’t play dumb,” Sam replies. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Bucky squares his jaw.

“Things are different now. I mean, I’m the first to admit not much, but we’re better with stuff like that.” Bucky glowers. “I won’t lie to your face. Some people might have a problem with it, but I’m not one of them.” Sam takes a deep breath. “There. You happy?”

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Are you sure?” he asks. He sounds more vulnerable than Sam expects, and it catches him off guard.

“Of course I am,” Sam says. His voice is softer. “And don’t go assuming everyone you meet is straight.” Bucky raises an eyebrow. Sam smiles, tries not to laugh.

Bucky’s lip twitches. He takes a deep breath and stares at the ground. The wheels are turning in his head. “Thank you, Sam,” he says.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” Sam replies. “The only thing I care about is that he’s okay,” he adds, gesturing toward Steve. There is a warm moment of silence.

Bucky swallows. “I will do whatever it takes,” he says.

“I know you will,” Sam says. “I know.”

They speak quietly for a few more minutes about the mission. Steve’s breath rises and falls. Sam is the first to fall asleep between the two.

Bucky closes his eyes and thinks - it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, because no matter what, in the end, they always come back to each other. He and Steve, always. Fighting together, living together.

Traveling the country together. Bucky likes that idea, files it away.

And lets himself drift away to the hum of the plane's engine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please see my long author's note here: http://hey--josephine.tumblr.com/post/123422646896/this-is-a-long-authors-note-for-the-story-the


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